The Measure of a Man
by thegraytigress
Summary: When Governor Swann denies Will his daughter's hand in marriage, the young man is desperate to prove himself. Will's heroics place him in grave danger, and he becomes a pawn in a much bigger and darker game. Now Jack is on a dangerous quest to save his life, one that takes him deeper into his past than he ever wanted to go.
1. A Broken Sword

**DISCLAIMER:** _Pirates of the Caribbean_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, language, adult themes)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Hi, all! I've received a few requests to repost this story, so here it is. I hope you all enjoy it. Because this was written before _Dead Man's Chest, At World's End, _and _On Stranger Tides_ were released, it is extremely AU and based solely on _The Curse of the Black Pearl._ It's a bit of a simpler story, without love triangles and Davy Jones and the East India Trading Company. It's about love and adventure and friendship in the face of danger, suffering, and betrayal. If you've read my other works, you know what I do :-).

No slash. Solidly Will/Elizabeth. Jack and Norrington and most of the original _Pirates of the Caribbean _cast in support. Please read and enjoy!

**THE MEASURE OF A MAN**

**CHAPTER ONE: A BROKEN SWORD**

A fine day had come to Port Royal. The sky was bright and blue, dotted haphazardly by puffs of cottony white, and the sun was warm and cheery in its reign over the land. The sea was calm, lapping at the shores and docks. A cool breeze served to lessen the press of the midday heat, ruffling trees and flowers as it brushed by, weaving its way randomly through the town. It carried with it the scent of the ocean, that lingering tang that eased the spirit and suggested to the heart that life could be pure and beautiful and exhilarating and wild. That there were some things in the world that thankfully did not change and some things that thankfully did. Warm days like this reminded men that there was yet some mark of morality, some lasting fairness inherent in the workings of all things.

The sea, after all, did not judge. It could save or kill. It was calm and invariable yet chained to no fate that could not be altered. It could love or hate, and it did so without question and without consideration to social status, breeding, or riches. It was an impartial thing that simply took as it gave. Before it, all men were equal. Arguably such an indifference to the frivolities that men deemed important could be seen as cold and cruel, but for most it was a simple reminder that the true forces in the world were not blinded by wealth or status. In that, the sea was the best murderer, the best mother, the best lover. She was blind and yet saw all. She caressed with cold currents and warmed with gentle sprays. She was as violent as she was vibrant. She was beautiful. And, on a day like this, she sang to men's hearts, to pirate and lawful man alike. The whistle of the waves upon the gentle wind, the smell of the salty water… these were the things that beckoned and welcomed men into her endless embraces. These were the things that never changed and that saw a soul for what it was, not for what it wanted or for what it couldn't be.

Nestled in the corner of one of Port Royal's many crowded streets, the smithy owned by J. Brown was turned against the wind. Rarely did the smell of the sea reach this dark nook, and even when there were gales strong enough to find their way to it, too often was the pleasant scent masked by other aromas that were less than appealing. Sweat. Refuse. Alcohol, mostly. Moreover, the small shop boasted few windows, and those that it did have were rarely opened to keep the bright rays of the sun from ruining a nap. Consequently, the cool breezes that sped the whispers of the sea to men's hearts never infiltrated the shadowy, little sanctum. There was no calming lull of the waves, nor was there a steady calling to unwavering simplicity. There was no alluring panacea to the woes of a society where a man borne into poverty could never be anything aside poor. There was no promise of an untold future, of a changeable fate as random as the waves striking the shore.

Aye, there was but this one truth, and William Turner knew it with every fiber of his being: if he didn't get these swords done soon, the Commodore would have his hide.

Sweat dripped into the young man's eyes, but he dared not waste a second to wipe the stinging droplets away. He skillfully pounded the rapidly cooling metal into the exact position he wished. His hands moved of their own accord, instinctively applying pressure where it was needed, guiding the weight of hammer without conscious direction. This was just as well, for his mind kept wandering despite the scolding of the little, whining voice within him that insisted upon reminding him of how much work he had yet to do. The Commodore's order was comprised of fifteen swords, and twelve of which now rested upon an old, worn table. The thirteenth was proving to be especially laborious. He'd spent most of the morning struggling to properly balance the blade, the weapon having stubbornly refused to comply with his adjustments. He considered himself to be a patient man, especially when it came to smithing. Long had he learned that the creation of a good blade could not be raced. It was a slow process, tempered by appreciation for the craft as well as a careful eye and steady hands. Each sword was unique, and the birth of such a thing could not be rushed.

A true artisan understood such a thing, and Will always liked to consider himself nothing less than a man loyal to his craft. But at that moment he was beginning to become frustrated. The Commodore had placed this order upon him earlier that month, and he had requested that the weapons be ready for a training session at the fort this coming Friday. It was now Thursday, and Will was worried he would not finish in time. He gritted his teeth in anger. What most people failed to realize was the weathered sign above the door outside that proclaimed this shop to be that of J. Brown was rapidly becoming quite a misnomer. Good Mr. Brown did nothing to run his smithy these days, which vexed Will greatly. A year ago, at least, the old man had participated somewhat in the upkeep of his business. Now he only drank and slept and chased women. Very few of the customers noted that it was Will alone who completed their orders, and of those that did, even fewer were sympathetic. Often the young man would be forced to work into the wee hours to complete a purchase while his master frequented any one of Port Royal's less than reputable establishments. It angered and frustrated Will to no end. At first, he'd been able to brush aside his disdain and rationalize the man's actions. That was before, though, before everything had happened. Now Brown only disgusted him and any familial affection or respect he might have once had for the man had been depleted by too many hours slaving in solitude and too many trips to the local bars and brothels to retrieve his drunken caretaker.

He could scarcely remember the days in which John Brown had been a man he had admired and tried to emulate. When he had first come to Port Royal as a lad of ten years with nothing to his name, the blacksmith had taken him in at the Governor's request. Mr. Brown's wife had been alive then. She had been a good but frail woman who had cared for Will as best as she could. She had loved the boy, certainly, but hers was a quiet, cold sort that rarely showed itself. She had insisted he be schooled, and she had taught him a strong foundation of morals that his own mother had never bothered to instill. She had passed away around four years ago, and with her went John Brown's respectability. It had begun with a simple drink, but as was the wont of such a thing, one drink soon became a bottle and another bottle after that. Affection faded to apathy, compassion to cruel complacency. By the time Will was old enough to fashion blades himself, Brown had completely lost interest in the boy. His grief and addiction had destroyed any speck of propriety, and Will had tried to resign himself to the fact that the work that came into the shop would inevitably fall to solely him.

But it was at times like these, when there was so much to do, when customers were unforgiving and unwilling to understand, when he was exhausted from many hours of heated labor, that he wished the old Mr. Brown would emerge from the slovenly fool that had taken over his stout body. Theirs was the only capable smithy in Port Royal. Mr. Brown had done his duty in that respect, at least. The quality of the work and the beauty of especially the swords were unprecedented, despite the fact that it was no longer Mr. Brown who was making them. Will bristled again, pounding harder as his eyes glazed in spiteful thought. Once, in an extremely intoxicated state, Brown had admitted to him while Will had dragged him home that the young man no longer needed his direction, that Will's skill as a blacksmith had far surpassed his own. Of course, this had not been meant as a compliment or praise, but rather as an excuse to remain inebriated and otherwise attached to the sinful life he had adopted. Still, Will had been pleased with the comment, even if nobody recognized it save Brown, and even then only after the man had imbibed egregious amounts of rum.

The young man grunted, and the hammer slammed down louder and louder. The oaf hadn't even come home last night. Normally Will would have gone out and searched for his master at his most frequented places; after all, the man _had_ cared for him in his youth, and despite all the disgust and disdain he presently harbored for John Brown, a love borne in childhood was hard to extinguish. But he hadn't last night, too swamped with work and too angry to care if the old man got himself into trouble or not. Earlier that morning the proprietor of one of Port Royal's ever increasing number of dingy inns had arrived at his doorstep. The smelly man had informed Will that Brown had passed out at one of his tables, and that the barkeep had been charitable enough to allow him to simply sleep off his alcoholic stupor. Of course, such fine morality and benevolence could not go unnoticed. It was quite a deal, according to this lout, considering he only asked that Will pay half the fee he would customarily charge for a room. And Brown's bar bill, of course. Biting his tongue in annoyance, he had handed over the requested sum of his own pocket and kindly asked the owner to push Brown from the bar upon his return to the waking world. The man had grinned toothily and sworn to do just that, but Will remained sensibly doubtful. Kicking out Brown meant he would have one less hopeless drunk to drop shillings onto his counter in return for spirits and women.

The detestable little scene replayed itself in Will's mind, and his mood grew steadily fouler. He felt so used and ignored. He usually made a point not to despair his status. Yes, he was a commoner, but there were many less fortunate than he, and he always tried to remember that. Of late, though, very few things were promising. A year had passed since his adventure. The days had quickly fled him, and sometimes, when he closed his eyes and tried to remember the smell of the sea, the excitement of battle, the thrill of love and hope for a bright future, he couldn't help but wonder if he had dreamt it all. The recollection had lost its flare, its color, its vivid pleasure. He was afraid to admit it, but he was beginning to believe himself a fool for ever thinking he could be anything more than what he was.

A year had passed, and nothing had changed.

Ire rose up in him, and the hammer came down hard. The minute the head of it struck the blade, he knew he had used too much force on a spot he had inadvertently pounded too thin. There was a loud snap as the stubborn metal shattered. The impact sent the back of the thin rod up, and his lost his grip. The sharp edge sliced into the tender flesh of his forearm.

Will shouted a curse. He dropped the offending hammer with a clank to the anvil and pushed the remains of the sword away. So many hours of work bloody wasted! Breathing heavily from the heat and his own anger, he stepped back. He stood still a moment, fuming and disgusted and berating himself for his carelessness. He couldn't afford to be making mistakes, not when that deadline was drawing ever closer. He waited until his booming heart slowed and the ache in his head receded. Then he felt something warm and wet on the arm of his shirt.

He sighed. In the flustered moment he hadn't noticed the cut, but now it throbbed with stinging insistency. He knew immediately it wasn't serious, but it was staining his white tunic with blood and it hurt. "A fine move, William," he muttered, eyeing the laceration carefully. It had been a long time since he had injured himself while working. He felt like hitting something but thought better of it. He'd managed to mangle himself enough for one day.

He grabbed for the rag on the table with the finished swords. He grunted and tossed it back, finding it full of dirt and oil. Frantically he glanced about, looking for another. Just then the latched door rattled with a knock. Will turned, startled. He was still a moment, flustered enough to be dazed. Then the knock came again, this time a bit more insistent. The young man glanced at his bleeding arm, flexing his fingers and finding the pain significantly dulled. With chagrin he realized he would need to go into the living quarters to properly treat the wound, and there wasn't the time at the moment. He lithely stepped up the stairs to the door, praying it was not another customer or one of the Commodore's lackeys checking on his progress.

He grasped the warm metal handle and pulled. The latch came open easily, and sunlight streamed into the darkened shop. It was not who he had expected. His eyes softened, the creeping scowl abandoning his face. His heart leapt. "Elizabeth," he said softly.

Elizabeth smiled. With the sunlight streaming about her, she was set aglow. Her honey hair bounced lightly in the breeze as she tipped her head a bit. Her face was well-formed and vibrantly striking, her features fine and her cheekbones high. She sported an elegant lilac dress that hugged her slender figure before opening into a full skirt. Her hazel eyes twinkled as she grinned. She was breath-taking, and every time Will saw her, he was taken aback by her beauty anew. She seemed too fine and delicate a thing for the rough likes of a blacksmith. Still, beneath her charm and cheer, he knew there existed a fiery spirit that loved vigorously and fought courageously.

All his troubles were forgotten in the splendor of her presence. "What are you doing here?" he asked breathlessly, shaking his head slightly at her sudden appearance.

Her grin grew wider, her full, pink lips pulling thinly in the motion. "I thought I'd surprise you with some luncheon," she announced. He grimaced ever so slightly, but she stopped him before he could even think to protest. "And don't try to dissuade me, Will. I know you. You rushed to work this morning on an empty stomach, and don't tell me differently."

He couldn't help but flush at what she had surmised, for it was all too true. Knowing the sheer volume of work that lay ahead of him, he had only quickly eaten a bit of honeyed bread before stepping into the forge and delving into the day's tasks. He hadn't thought much of it since. As if to betray his pride, his stomach rumbled ever so slightly just then, and Elizabeth laughed. "See? Your belly will tell me the truth, even if you won't."

He smiled, his cheeks burning brightly. No matter how often they met, no matter how many times they kissed, he could not bring himself to fully accept the wonder of it all. His cynical thoughts of before seemed utterly vulgar now. Some things _had_ changed, the most amazing and remarkable of them being her affirmation of his love. She was the only girl he had ever loved. Even as a child he had felt this connection to her. To this day, opening his eyes and looking into hers after nearly drowning still seemed unreal to him, as if he had awoken from a terrible nightmare and found himself in a beautiful, ethereal dream. He smiled blankly at the idea for its drama, but in all fairness, it wasn't so far from the truth. As time wore on, the horrible attack on the merchant vessel that had left him the only survivor and quite near death faded more into hazy recollection. With it went the cold and lonely memories of England. His mother had loved him, he knew, but she had led a life upon which he cared not to dwell, a life that had denied her respectability, money, and the time to properly raise a child. After she had died, he had, through a scrape of good luck, managed to barter his services as a cabin boy for passage to the Caribbean. He had never known much of his father; if his mother had been aware of Bill Turner's life as a pirate, she had never chosen to burden her son with that knowledge. With nothing left of his family save the medallion his father had sent him, he had left England, hoping to find Bill Turner in the Caribbean.

He never had. But that day, when the_ Black Pearl_ had attacked the merchant vessel and left him to die, his life had changed. He'd met Elizabeth, and not a day since then had passed without a thought of her. She was something pure and bright, beyond the reach of a simple orphaned boy. He'd yearned to be by her side as a child simply because she had been so kind to him. As he'd grown, those simple wishes had morphed into a deeper, wondrous infatuation. He'd only been with her for more than a glance and a greeting a scant times since that fateful attack for she had been, to put it bluntly, in a different world. Always aloft and removed from the dirt of the forge and the grime of the street, he had only met her when Mr. Brown's errands had taken him to the mansion. She had never forgotten his name or his face. Even when the servants had talked down upon him, she had always treated him with respect, as her equal. Her simple attention had nourished the love within him, and he had never once regretted coming to the Caribbean. This was not to say that he did not miss his mother at times, or that the nightmares of the fierce fight aboard the merchant ship did not every so often plague him still…

Or that he did not still wonder what had become of his father.

What it meant was that he was contented to merely know he breathed the same air as she did, that he watched the same starry sky at night and listened to the melodies of the same ocean. And now… A distant memory came to him, one of his most cherished. For many years he had thought it to be a figment of imagination as he had been rather feverish after being rescued. But of late he'd convinced himself of its truth. A blurry scene had focused slowly as he had opened bleary, hurting eyes. There was golden light, and it encased the form of a little girl. She wore a pretty dress, and she smiled when he looked at her.

_"Are you an angel?"_ he had asked.

She looked shocked and shook her head. _"No. I'm Elizabeth."_ A small, cold hand had fallen across his brow. _"Were your parents on that ship?"_

Talking hurt his throat, but he was unable to deny her despite the pain. _"No. I came alone."_

She had nodded solemnly and then very seriously said, _"Well, you're not alone anymore."_

And he wasn't. In this last year, she'd made that promise wonderfully true.

"Will?" The sound of her voice pulled him from his reverie, and he jerked as he came free from his thoughts. She was watching him with expectant eyes that shone with the tiniest bit of concern. "Can you let me in?"

"Oh. Oh, right." Ashamed, he opened the door wider and moved aside as she stepped through. Thoughtlessly he dropped his hand from where he had hidden it behind the opened door. She spotted the blood almost instantly and gasped. "You've cut yourself!"

He clenched his hand into a fist and tried to inch it behind his back as though removing it from her sight might make her forget about it. "It's nothing, Elizabeth. I was… distracted."

She was not pleased with his response. Her jaw clenched slightly, and she reached for his arm. "I won't have that from you," she said curtly. She lifted his arm and winced at the blood. He wanted to pull away, embarrassed to have her mother him. Still, he liked the attention. He liked _her_ attention.

In a most unladylike manner she pulled him to the table. "Sit," she demanded, almost pushing him down onto one of the rickety stools. Then with a flash of purple and gold she was walking quickly to the hallway in the rear of the shop that led to the living area. She gave a small sound of discomfort as she disappeared into the ruddy shadows. "How do you _live_ in here? The heat is nigh unbearable!" she declared, her voice muffled by the thin wall that separated them. He smiled, looking down as he rested his injured arm across the table. There was the sound of rustling and then rattling. "And I don't suppose there is a _clean_ basin in this entire sty…" His grin grew wider, and he grimaced slightly at a particularly loud crash. He briefly considered going back there and telling her this was not necessary or at least helping her find what she wanted, but she appeared once more a moment later, her hands full with a roll of linen, cloths, a small basin of water, and a flask Will knew to be Brown's secret store of rum.

These things she set to the table. Then she sat gracefully on the stool across from him. She smiled tenderly, her skin glistening as perspiration began to develop upon it. Long fingers deftly unbuttoned the cuff of his tunic. They did not speak for some time. It had been a few days since they had last seen each other. Though they had been openly courting for almost a year, there was still awkwardness to their relationship. In these moments, Will found himself struggling to conjure up enough courage to simply speak with her at time. The fact they had spent many hours talking of everything and nothing these last months made no difference. Each time was as important and as special as the first had been.

Her fingers were light and gentle as she pushed up his sleeve. She took her eyes from his and set to examining the cut. "It's not like you to be so careless," she commented, a teasing note to her voice. She looked up without raising her head. "Or so sloppy."

Will sighed, wishing she hadn't seen the mess of the back rooms. He'd made a mental note some days ago to straighten the clutter and clean the dirt, but he hadn't had the time. "He didn't come home last night," he finally explained as she dunked one of the cloths into the fresh water. Elizabeth looked up briefly, her eyes narrowing in disgust. She was probably the only person to whom he regularly complained about Brown's dishonorable habits. Carefully she used the cloth to wash the laceration on his arm. "And I wouldn't be at all surprised if he doesn't return tonight, either."

She turned her eyes to her work. Her shoulders sagged slightly as she bathed the cut. "I'm sorry, Will," she finally said.

His callused hand wrapped around hers momentarily, stopping her ministrations. "Why? It's no fault of yours."

Her thumb stroked his forefinger briefly before she pulled away, rinsing the bloody cloth in the water. "I know, but I feel wretched nonetheless. It's dreadful what that man does to you, especially after you've worked so hard to – to –"

He interrupted her flustered stammering. "To make something of myself?"

She paused in wiping the torn skin. "That's not what I meant to say," she amended, her cheeks flushing slightly. But they both knew otherwise. The fact of it was a sensitive subject between them, a constant reminder of why their love had not yet been made public and legal with a marriage. He was blacksmith, and noble ladies did not wed commoners. Especially commoners descended from pirates.

Will managed a smile for her, sensing her distress. The topic never disappeared, though they managed to hide it well with fine aspirations and other pleasant matters. "I'm sorry to expose you to such a mess, my Lady. What must you think of me?" His voice was filled with a mockery of shame and hurt.

She laughed. "You ought to hire yourself some help," she commented. Will smiled softly and shook his head, watching as she went about tending to his arm. He loved her with every fiber of his being, but even he could see her ignorance of poverty. She wore it plainly, as she did her fine dresses and jewelry. To her, every problem had a simple solution, one often catalyzed with money. He did not fault her this mindset; she had no cause to think in any other manner. She had lived her whole life in comfort, and she couldn't be expected to understand anything else, or to suffer it.

Which was the crux of his problem, really.

"Perhaps I could send one of the maids from the mansion to help you tidy up," she supplied, her brow furrowed as she patted the laceration dry. "I hardly have need for Melly any longer. If I asked it of her, she would come and keep the shop neat for you."

Will still smiled, but the grin was slipping from his lips. "I couldn't begin to pay her for her services," he explained gently. "Every coin I manage to save ends up in a fund to save Mr. Brown from his vices."

Elizabeth looked crestfallen a moment, as if remembering she loved a man of limited means. "Surely you wouldn't need to, Will. Father would–" She realized what she was proposing and grew quiet. The young man watched the regret flash in her eyes before she averted them, returning her gaze to the gash on his arm. An uneasy silence came between them, one they neither wanted nor enjoyed. This was another source of silent, undesired contention in their relationship. Elizabeth was of the mindset that planning for such things as their finances could wait, that they together could face such obstacles when the occasion demanded it. She didn't care that he was a simple man with little to his name. To her, love was all that mattered. Besides, if the two should ever need anything, she was certain her father would gladly help them.

Will was a bit more realistic. Love they certainly had. He had no doubt that he could be happy with her and that alone, but in the dark recesses of his heart he secretly feared that she would not be. She had never tasted poverty, never known the crushing grip of being unable to afford wonderful things, never understood the insecurity inherent in one day having and the next wanting. He didn't want to expose her to that, and he had sworn to himself that he wouldn't, no matter the cost to him. He wanted to provide for her, to give her everything for which she wished. He was gentleman, after all, and as Mrs. Brown had taught him, a gentleman did not wed a lady until he was certain he could make a home for her. As of yet, Will had been unable to do just that.

And the one time he had had both money and courage enough to ask for Elizabeth's hand, the Governor had denied him.

Well, not so much as denied but ignored, but the truth of the matter was this: Weatherby Swann did not want his daughter to marry a lowly blacksmith. Will found himself fuming as he recalled the day he had sought the Governor's permission to propose. It had taken months of grueling work, but he had managed to amass funds enough to prove to Swann that he was capable of caring for his daughter. When he had finally been granted an audience, he had steeled himself, rehearsing once more the speech he had envisioned as he strolled as proudly as he could into the ornate office. The Governor had hardly looked up at him; ever since that day, when Will had rescued Jack from the hangman's noose and admitted his love to Elizabeth, the man's once cordial consideration of him had turned cold and curt. The Governor had politely asked him how his business was, and Will had politely responded. As Swann had conscientiously scrawled a letter in elegant penmanship, a terrible, deafening silence had descended. Clearing his throat and forcing confidence into his tone, he'd explained his intentions, defending them with the best of ambitions and his months of hard work. The man had never looked up, even when he had finally found the courage to force the request from his mouth.

"_I'd like your blessing, sir. I want to ask Elizabeth to marry me."_

Silence. Only after a torturous eternity of fearful doubt had Swann looked up. He had sighed loudly, and then returned to his work. Will's fear and anger had burned within him. _"Will you not answer me, Governor?"_

Another loud, disapproving breath. The elder man had lifted his quill slightly before raising his head again and fixing the youth with an appraising stare. _"Just what is you think you can give my daughter, Mr. Turner?"_

Will hadn't known how to respond to that. _"I love her, sir."_

The quill was then scratching noisily against the parchment once more. _"Love has little to do with it."_ And that had been it. The Governor had refused to even further acknowledge his presence, as though by ignoring him Will and the problems he posed would simply vanish. The young man had stood stiffly, his chin held high despite the kick to his pride and the blow to his heart. When his strength had fled him, obliterated by his fury, he had left. He had never been so hurt, so humiliated and belittled. What a mistake he'd made in thinking he could prove himself worthy when, by default, he could never be anything more than a commoner.

No. That had not been the worst mistake. The most egregious error he'd made thus far was not telling Elizabeth about his failure. At first, it had simply hurt too much. Then he hadn't wanted to hurt her or trouble her. She had been so happy, so excited. Though they had never directly spoken of it, she assumed a marriage proposal was soon in coming. After all, it had been a year, and they did love each other deeply. He couldn't find it within him to admit to himself that he wasn't good enough, much less confess his shortcoming to her. That had been almost two months ago. He had doubted that the Governor had spoken of the matter to his daughter. The change in the man's attitude towards Will had been entirely discouraging. As any good father would, he only wanted the best for his only daughter, for the beauty she was and the love she promised. Swann didn't want to see her hurt, which must have been why he had at first permitted this romance to commence. He probably assumed it was nothing but a fancy, the sort of love that was borne of extreme experiences and that died just as hard and quickly as it had come. But what Will felt for Elizabeth was nothing so cheap or fleeting, and it never had been. Once the Governor had realized this, he had begun to regard Will as a dangerous nuisance, and, frankly, the young man was growing weary of it.

There was a stinging pain on his arm. He gasped, making to yank away as the tender wound burned. Elizabeth's grip on his wrist tightened, and she looked up at him with apologetic eyes. The next time she wiped the wound with a rum-soaked cloth the pain was not so great or sudden, and he only sucked his breath through his teeth and winced, clenching his hand into a fist. The pungent aroma of the alcohol invaded his nostrils. "I suppose that stuff will rot away my flesh," he muttered indignantly.

Elizabeth scowled at him. "Honestly, Will," she said, shaking her head slightly. "If you had proper medicine, I wouldn't have to use this." Will flushed slightly at the comment, chewing the inside of his cheek as she continued to clean the gash. He worried briefly that he had offended her, for the quiet was long and heavy. Then she peered up at him, smiling softly. "Besides every drop spent here is one less Mr. Brown can consume."

He had to grin at that. She took another linen swatch and wrapped it about the reddened laceration. Her fingers seemed to move magically to him, daftly elegant in every motion, every touch. He was mesmerized by it, watching with rapt attention as she worked the long strip of white about his forearm. When she was finished, she tied the bandage firmly. Her hands rested on the warmth of his skin for a moment. Then the tips of her fingers lightly ran down his skin, touching him as though she were feeling heat and strength for the first time. The caress teased Will, the play of her fingers against his flesh maddening, and he watched as well as she dragged her hands to his wrist ever so lightly. Heat rolled over him, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

Her fingers spread his, her skin smooth and white, his bronzed and rough. She traced the pale scar that stretched across his palm. A year had passed since Will had cut his hand and repaid the blood of the ancient curse that had caused them all such trouble. All that remained of his trial now was this small mark. "Do you ever think about him?" she asked.

His lips quirked in a small, rueful smile. "More than I ought to," he admitted.

She looked up, and her eyes seemed misty. She returned his weak grin with one of her own. "I miss him at times. I know that's a dreadful thing to admit, but I truly do. He… he was a terrible man and a horrible scoundrel, but underneath all his swagger, he really did have a big heart." Her hand closed about his, pressing their palms together. Brushing scar with scar. She went on, her voice soft with emotion. "You didn't have to hide anything in front of him. You didn't have to pretend to be anything other than what you were. He never asked that of you, and he didn't act upon pretenses. He saw through all of that, and even though he was nothing but a dirty pirate, I think that makes him a better man than most."

Will said nothing to this, nodding solemnly. He understood completely. Jack Sparrow was an enigmatic man. Though he had had quite an adventure with him and had together faced more than a few perils, Will had to admit he still didn't know much of the renowned pirate. Undeniably he was arrogant, and he played the boisterous fool so convincingly that one began to doubt one's sanity in dealing with him. Even to this day (and Will had contemplated this quite often), the young blacksmith could not be certain _what_ motives exactly had driven Jack in helping him. The cynical side of him that still doubted the goodness in piracy proclaimed that the captain's ambitions had been clear: use Will and his love for Elizabeth to win back the_ Black Pearl_. And at the time, he had believed whole-heartedly that these selfish desires governed Jack's heart. Not much happened in their tribulations that warranted the change in his opinion. Arguably Jack's rescue of him had been only another step in his plan to trick Barbossa and reclaim his ship. But there had been something about it, perhaps the glint in the man's eyes or the tone in his voice, that had cooled the fiery rage in Will's heart. It had been the same touch of nobility, of compassion, that had inexplicably crawled into Jack's demeanor when the man had told him of his father. _"The only rules that really matter are these," _Jack had said, _"what a man can do, and what a man can't do. You can accept that your father was a pirate and a good man, or you can't. The pirate is in your blood, boy, so you'll have to square with that someday."_

Until then, Will had never believed there to be anything but dishonesty, villainy, and lechery in the world of the pirate. But Jack had proven him wrong, and while that relieved him, it also bothered him. He still didn't know what he thought of his father. Some days he was almost proud to know Bootstrap Bill Turner had been a good, loyal man by a pirate's standard. On others, he could not find it within himself to forgive a man who had left his wife and son behind for a life of plundering and pillaging, no matter how fine a soul he had purportedly been.

But most often he simply wished to _know_. He inevitably wondered about his father whenever he thought of Jack. As little as he comprehended of Captain Sparrow, he knew nothing of the man whose blood flowed in his veins. Before the incident with the_ Black Pearl_, he had been willing to let it go and accept the fact that he might never understand what had happened to his father. But when Jack Sparrow had stumbled into his life, all the unanswered questions and unresolved pains from his youth had resurfaced. And now he could not quiet them, not after seeing and hearing and _tasting_ the life his father had led. Will Turner was perhaps a pirate by blood, and maybe a small part of him would always fondly long for the thrill of the sea, but he was first and foremost a son who had lost his father and yearned to learn the truth. _Square with it someday,_ he thought bitterly. _You make it sound so simple, Jack. How am I supposed to accept a fact that I don't understand?_

Jack Sparrow was a good man, and a good man would certainly know another, right?

"Will," Elizabeth prompted. He looked to her. She smiled, her hand still clasping his. "My, your mind escapes you today. Did you hear what I said?"

Color burned into his cheeks. His thoughts were running rampant, and he'd had enough of it. His brooding had already ruined that sword and had caused him to hurt himself. He wasn't about to let his foul mood hang over the few precious moments with Elizabeth he had. "No. I'm sorry," he stammered, grimacing apologetically.

A mischievous glint came to her deep hazel eyes. "I asked you if you would like me to kiss it," she stated simply. Her hands dropped his, and she stood suddenly. A fake look of hurt and indignant anger claimed her expression. She lifted her chin and turned away from him, making a great show of her vexation. "But since you thought it prudent to ignore me, I shall rescind my offer."

"No!" he gasped, leaping to his feet. He grinned widely when she turned. "I mean that – not that I –" he stammered lamely. She watched him expectantly. Then, with two long strides, he was in front of her. His large hands came to cup her delicate face, and he kissed her.

They were still for a long moment. She parted her lips to him, and he greedily accepted the invitation. Despite courting for a year, the instances in which they could truly express their passion were agonizingly few as she was the Governor's daughter and could rarely obtain both time and permission to partake in a commoner's company. His tongue slid inside her mouth, teasing hers, and, not to be undone, she hungrily returned his desire. Her hands slipped into his hair, pushing free the tie that bound the dark locks and tangling her fingers into the thick tresses. She pushed him back, eager to take control, driving them both clumsily back into one of the wooden beams of the smithy. His back hit the beam and wrapped his arms around her, pressing her tightly to his chest. She tasted of coffee and strawberries and smelled like a warm day in a garden. She was intoxicating.

Finally they parted. Breathless he stood, his heart pounding, decidedly aroused as she proceeded to drop feather-light kisses to his jaw. He groaned softly, her fingers drawing small, tantalizing circles on the planes of his chest through his sweat-streaked shirt. "Now that I have your attention," she said between her kisses. She teased the flesh of his neck sensuously, enjoying his short moan of desire and the control she had over him. "I plan on kidnapping you, Will Turner. You will come with me and enjoy our luncheon, and you will do so without a fuss and without a thought as to the work you are leaving behind."

That soured the moment. He grimaced and attempted to pull away. "You know as well as I that the Commodore needs his–"

Her finger pressed across his lips, silencing him. Pools of glimmering brown twinkled as they gazed into his eyes. "Shhh," she said. "Without a fuss. These are my terms, and I will not accept 'no' for an answer."

As much as he knew he would regret this later, he couldn't deny her. He couldn't even fathom it. He nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. Her face lit up as she triumphantly grinned. Her playful torture of his skin ceased as she planted a light kiss on his lips. "Good. Melly is waiting." Her hand found his, and she pulled him along, pausing only to lift his jacket from a nearby chair and offer it to him. She held it for him, waiting impatiently for him to stick his arms through the sleeves.

He laughed, his black mood forgotten. Elizabeth Swann always got what she wanted, it seemed. And if she wanted him, well, who was he to argue?


	2. A Ship at Sea

**DISCLAIMER:** _Pirates of the Caribbean_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, language, adult themes)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Wow! I'm shocked (and really thrilled) at the number of people who remember this story. Thanks! On we go!

**THE MEASURE OF A MAN**

**CHAPTER TWO: A SHIP AT SEA**

Elizabeth breathed deeply, and the sweet air of the sea filled her. It was wonderful here on this private beach far from the hustle of Port Royal's busy town. This was one of the few spots on the island that remained blessedly uninhabited. It was a special place, where the blue ocean touched the white sand, where the flowers were bright and verdant, where the sky kissed the water and the breeze was never cold. She had discovered it shortly after they had moved to Port Royal. She had been terribly homesick, and the recent death of her mother still grieved both of their hearts. It was peaceful here, peaceful and beautiful, a quiet paradise free from sorrow or worries or responsibilities. The pressures of propriety and society were far away, and here among the trees and flowers and sand and surf she could simply be herself. Though it had been many years since she and her father had taken their leisurely strolls upon the beach, since she had played in the water under his watchful eye, her father had permitted no businessman or builder to use this land. It would always be her small sanctuary.

There was but one entrance to the beach, and that came from the Governor's estate, a meandering path that led one through the lush forest. The descent from the top of the hill where the mansion was situated was gentle but long, but she didn't mind the time spent walking. Her father had often taken her on that same road. It was something she cherished, for though she knew he loved her dearly, the pressures of his station often kept him busy. He never came here anymore, which was one of the reasons she had opted to bring Will here for their meal. She was fairly certain they would be alone.

Will didn't know about her love of this place, or its sentimental value in her heart, but she saw the respect in his eyes as they stood at the end of the path and looked out into the area. He immediately realized this was no simple stretch of sand and water. His deep eyes scanned the scene before him, his strong face relaxed with appreciation and awe. "It's splendid," he remarked, squeezing her hand slightly. The breeze was clean and fresh as it wove its way around them, sending the dark waves of his hair blowing.

She smiled. To him she offered the small basket of food her maid had prepared for him. He accepted it, sliding the wicker handle over his forearm. She grasped his other hand for support, and, holding her dress up slightly, she removed her shoes. Will regarded her in surprise a moment. "Well, you don't expect me to come to the beach and not enjoy the sand, do you?"

She released his arm. "Not at all," he answered, a sly, amused grin gracing his face. A few minutes later, he had shed his jacket, shoes, and stockings. Holding her hand, he led her across the white sand, making a show of picking a spot. She laughed. Finally he seemed to decide on a particular area. The shade of a nearby palm stretched shadowy fingers over the ground. "Does this suit you, m'lady?" Will asked, bowing slightly as he gestured to the little area.

"Quite," she responded, stepping about him on light feet. The sand was very hot, but it felt marvelous and soft between her toes as she walked. Acting the part, Will took the blanket he had been carrying it and unfurled it with a shake. He again offered her his hand, and she took it, curling long, pale fingers about his as he helped her to sit. She did not wait to settle herself before giving him a rather hard yank, and with a gasp of shock he came down. Elizabeth laughed as he crawled to her, smiling like a fool. She could scarcely believe at times that this man she loved was the same shy Will Turner who had until last year never addressed her by her first name. At times she still saw that boy within him, usually in the awkward moments that always seemed to coincide with when they met. When he was troubled or nervous, she observed his jaw clench just so, and his eyes narrow to a seriousness that belied his age. But those awkward moments were fewer now. Though she would never tell him, she believed that his experiences aboard the_ Black Pearl_ had done much to mature him.

He sat beside her. She watched him appreciatively for a moment. His youthful face was blessed with a strong jaw and a high brow. Cheekbones, chiseled and fine, added a mark of nobility to his countenance. His lips were pursed at the moment, framed by the modest beginnings of a mustache and beard. There was a certain intense quality to his eyes. They were deep and dark, fathomless she might say, and she had begun to realize of late that she could stare into them and lose herself. They seemed an open invitation, a proverbial window to his soul, and she found the power of his gaze lulling at times. He was a strange sort, an alluring combination of youth and innocence lost far too early. There was both seriousness and youthful naiveté in his heart, and they often times seemed to conflict. But he wore his love for her plainly, openly, and completely, his devotion and admiration obvious for any to see. She was proud of that. She was proud to have him love her without reservation, without thought to the often less than complimentary opinions of others. She was honored to have him.

"Now whose mind escapes who?" Will quipped, smiling. Embarrassed for having stared so, she smoothed the wrinkles in her dress. Instinctively she properly settled herself, arranging the abundant folds of cloth so as to completely cover her legs and to prevent sand from dirtying the expensive fabric. Such behaviors were too well engrained into her to ignore, though she was certain Will would care little if her skirt should become slightly soiled. After all, he sat beside her, dressed in a work shirt that was marred by stains of soot and smudged by oil, not to mention the blood that had soaked into his sleeve. Sometimes she envied him for his freedom. Her father would certainly not be pleased if she ever donned something so filthy.

For a long time they did not speak. The waves lapped against the shore, singing a soft melody that eased Elizabeth. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply and listening intently to the repetitive swell and sink of the sea. The aroma was pure and warm within her, purging her, it seemed, of the stuffiness of the mansion. Of late she felt more trapped within her home than ever. Since the escapade with the_ Black Pearl_, her father had become extremely mindful of her. He insisted upon knowing her plans for each day, and, if at all possible, sent with her soldiers or at least an escort. Frankly, she was growing quite tired of the restrictions. She knew he meant well. So many times had he doted upon her, telling her that she was his to cherish. She was, after all, the only bit of his wife that he had left, and she had grown into a young woman quite in her image. His concern for her safety was unwarranted and his measures to ensure it were extreme. This picnic now, for instance, had taken days to plan. She had waited until the Governor was meeting with his advisers and nobles, knowing he would be too busy to keep a close eye on her. She had lied, proclaiming she was to spend the noontime at dress fitting for this weekend's gala. Then, after enlisting Melly in her scheme, she had waited until the guards about the house had changed shifts. She had slipped away as surreptitiously as possible, sneaking outside and quickly escaping the estate, her trustworthy maid in tow. Hopefully, her father would never suspect a thing.

Truth be told, she hated lying to him. He only wanted what was best for her, and she knew that. He was a kindly man, hardly fierce except when it came to her needs or wants. During the incident with the_ Black Pearl_, he had nearly lost her. That was certainly the greater reason behind his constant fretting over her. Elizabeth sighed and opened her eyes. _The greater reason, perhaps. But not the only reason._ Her eyes drifted to her companion as he went about pulling their meal from the basket. She loved her father dearly, but she despised his attitude towards Will. Perhaps he thought her ignorant, but she recognized well enough the spite and disapproval that made their way into her father's eyes at every mention of her love. He placated her talk with fake smiles and unenthusiastic nods, making no effort to hide his dislike for their courting as though by hinting of his disdain, she might suddenly come to her senses. When she was feeling bold she would defend her choice, but her father would never agree. Will Turner was a commoner, a man without a past and with decidedly little chance for a future. Worse still, he was the son of a pirate, and in a society where the worth of a man was often judged by the worth of his father, Will was stained by an unfortunate past. He was not "marriage material", as her father would say. She cared little about any of that, though. She loved Will deeply. She would never stop loving him. She had never felt this strongly about anything before, and she would be damned if she let the whims of an arrogant society hamper that.

Will was a good man. She was certain her father would one day see that and put these doubts behind him. With any luck, that day would be soon in coming.

_Extremely_ soon, she hoped.

She smiled and accepted a piece of bread that Will offered her, casting aside her pessimistic and dark thoughts. The day was bright and warm and beautiful, and she was alone on a breath-taking beach with the man she loved. Few things in life were so perfect.

And yet a dark cloud hung over them. It was subtle in its gloom but undeniable in its presence. They ate in an uncomfortable silence. She glanced at Will as she chewed the sweet bread, but his eyes were distant, focused on something out on the horizon across the blue expanse of water. His expression was a bit twisted, as if he was pondering something somewhat distressing. He'd been like this all day, stewing over some private matter, and she was getting frustrated. Though he wore his emotions quite plainly, he rarely divulged the nature of his thoughts. Soft-spoken, at times far too complacent, and more often than not a perfectionist, he was prone to over-analyzing and over-thinking.

She grew frustrated with the depressed quiet. Sighing as though greatly irritated, she raised her chin. "Mr. Turner," she began sternly, drawing his wayward attention, "you are hardly keeping up your end of the bargain. Need I remind you that thoughts of work were not supposed to occupy you during your captivity?"

He grinned, and the action sent her heart fluttering. She steeled herself, struggling to maintain a straight face. "Ah, but I was not thinking about work," he countered coyly, playing along in her game. She was relieved to see the mischievous glint sparkle in his eyes, the serious expression he had donned moments ago slipping from his face.

Elizabeth leaned into his arm slightly. "Well, then I must know of this matter, as it has foiled our bargain. I may be less inclined to release you if you do not explain it to me."

"It's nothing, Elizabeth."

The joy slid back into the cold places of her heart. Her lips sunk in a frown, lines of concern furrowing her smooth brow. They were quiet again, the sweeping of the sea speaking in their stead. Something inside Elizabeth throbbed. These last weeks Will had been somewhat distant, troubled by matters he cared not to explain to her, and his seclusion hurt her. She knew he did not like to burden her, but she was neither fragile nor weak. She could bear his worries with him, and in doing so, ease their weight upon his heart. She supposed such behavior was perfectly logical and perhaps even instinctual to him. Rarely did he speak of his life before her father's ship had rescued him from the waters of the Atlantic, but she imagined it had been awful. Perhaps a childhood spent alone, without a solid family or consistent love, engrained into a person such defenses. Regardless, she was with him now, and he did not need to bottle everything up so tightly.

Her hand sought his, and she curled her fingers around it. "Will, I know you don't care to speak about things that bother you, but, please, know that I'm here, and that I will listen and think no less of you."

He sighed, as though he had expected her to say that. He bowed his head slightly, the remains of a melon at which he had been picking suddenly forgotten as he set the fruit down to the blanket. "It truly is nothing of any importance. I'm overreacting. Thinking too much, like you always say I do." The corners of his mouth twitched in a bit of a smile.

She would not be so easily dissuaded. "Perhaps it would do you some good to speak of it," she offered, stroking his knuckles with her thumb absently. "Even if it is nothing."

He was silent at that. A quiet minute slipped by them again, and she watched him intently. Finally his glazed eyes narrowed. "I… I've been thinking about my father," he admitted quietly. His tone was thick with a great many emotions. He did not turn to face her, his eyes roving the horizon, as if searching for something forever just out of his reach. He didn't continue, and though Elizabeth's curiosity was greatly piqued, she didn't prompt him. She didn't want to push him, knowing he would speak of this on his own terms.

Eventually he turned and looked at her. "I never told you what happened to him," he stated simply. His voice was surprisingly calm.

Confused and concerned, she shook her head. "No," she agreed, "you never did."

Will sighed and returned his gaze to the lavender and blue waves of the sea. "When I was their prisoner aboard the _Black Pearl_, two of them… _gloated_ about what they had done to him." His words were measured, cool and curt. "If there is such a thing as loyalty among pirates, my father apparently was beset by it. He didn't agree with Barbossa and the crew for staging their mutiny and leaving Jack on that island. Whatever honor he had drove him to punish them for it, and that's why he sent me the medallion."

Elizabeth shook her head numbly, struggling to absorb all that he was telling her. "I had no idea," she murmured.

"Neither did I," he said. A hurt look graced his handsome features, one that made her heart ache. "After he defied them, they tied him to a cannon and sent him to the bottom of the sea, never to be heard from again."

Silence. Feeling the need to do or say something to ease his pain, her laid her other hand atop his, holding it between her own. "Will, I'm so sorry."

If the words meant anything to him, it was not readily apparent. It was then she realized it was not this story of his father's betrayal that was troubling him. He sighed and looked down. "It didn't occur to me until later, until after Jack had left and I had time to think, that it couldn't have been so simple."

"What do you mean?"

"I thought… I was angry, furious that Barbossa had killed him. It didn't matter to me that the man was cruel and evil beyond any measure; the way he died was too awful, too cold, and I couldn't let it go. And I was angry with Jack for doing nothing to stop it though I suppose he couldn't have done anything. That didn't make me feel any better about it. I was angry with him even for letting my father keep to such loyalty in a world that honors no allegiances." He shook his head slightly, dark curls falling about his face and obscuring it from her view. "But the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that I was wrong. Jack didn't kill my father. Neither did Barbossa. If he died, it was by my hand. _I _killed him."

The color drained from Elizabeth's face. For a moment, she was forced to wonder if she had heard him correctly. The words had come into her head, but there they seemed to elicit no meaning. She was silent, stunned and frightened of what he had said. The simple statement hung on the air, horrible in all of its implications. Finally, she found it within her to speak. "Oh, Will," she whispered, her voice weak with dawning realization. "No."

He bowed his head slightly. "The fact of it is," he continued, his voice surprisingly calm and subdued, "I don't _know_ what happened to him. Ten years is a long time. Maybe he managed to free himself…" He shook his head. "Perhaps he escaped before I broke the curse. I just…" A frustrated note came to his voice. "I just want to understand. I _need_ to understand. To let it go. I thought I had, but ever since we met Jack and discovered these things, everything I had put to rest has come alive again." Will released a soft breath, the wind caressing his hair. He turned to look at her, meeting her gaze finally. She was surprised to find him calm. Obviously he had thought about this a great deal. She could hardly blame him. Truth be told, after escaping Barbossa and returning to Port Royal, she had wondered at the story behind all she had seen. She had felt like she had observed the second act of a convoluted play without understanding the important exposition of the first. But she hadn't spent more than a passing thought upon it, so swept up had she been in a new and exciting romance.

She had never asked Will about his father, and he had never spoken of it. She wondered why suddenly he was telling her this, why after all these months this was troubling him.

"I can't help but wonder," he continued, drawing her attention, "if he managed to free himself. If he had, he's alive, somewhere. And if he hadn't…" His voice trailed off, this time marred by pain and weakened by doubt. He looked down. "It's been a year, Elizabeth, and it's almost as if nothing has changed." A slightly hurt look came to her face, and he immediately noticed. "I look at you," he said, grasping her hands in his own, "and I see my future. Our future. I see everything I want to be. But then, when I have to look away, I see the same things that have always been, the same dirt and the same endless climb to a place I can't ever reach." Bitterness crawled into his tone. It was so misplaced, so alien to her ears. "I feel cheated. All my life I've wondered what happened to my father. The thought of never knowing whether or not I…" His strong shoulders shuddered, and his grip on her hands became tighter. He grew silent then and returned his gaze to the ocean. "Like a ship at sea…" he murmured. "I'll never find it. I'll never know."

She was desperate to comfort him. Spitefully she regretted the damper this topic had put upon what was meant to be a joyous outing. A larger part of her, the part that was fiercely devoted to him and infinitely glad he was finally confiding in her, ached to ease his pain. She was angry that he had kept this from her all this time. Will was a private person, but he needed to learn that sharing the pains of life with a loved one took away the sharpness of the hurt. "Every ship seeks harbor now and then," she supplied finally. Then she grimaced inwardly at how lame and weak the words sounded.

He didn't seem to think so, however, and he regarded her with softening eyes. "All he left me was his name, and for the longest time, I was… satisfied with that. I was poor and all alone, but I was happy believing a lie. He was a merchant sailor and a good man." His hand balled into a fist in the blanket. "But now… Now that name he left me isn't just a name. Now I've been marked. I'm a pirate's son." The spite and anger made the words scathing, and he nearly spat them in disgust. His body tensed beside her. His handsome face scrunched into a hurt scowl, and he pulled away from her as though his touch might soil her purity. "I can't be the man you need me to be."

Shock mulled over her, at first slowly as she realized what he was implying, and then sharply as her own anger scorched her. She grabbed his face and forced him to look at her. Her eyes were blazing. "I don't _need_ you to be anyone other than what you are," she snapped, staring deeply into his eyes as though to force the idea into his skull with a glare. "I don't want you to, either. I love you, Will. I fell in love with a blacksmith's apprentice. I don't care that you're an orphan or poor or the son of a pirate! I love _you._"

They looked at each other for a long time. Their love was there before them, a bridge connecting two yearning souls. It was warm and strong and deep, and she hoped with every ounce of her being that it would be enough to prove to him that he was perfect. He'd been strangely melancholic of late, and now she was beginning to understand why. It wasn't like him to doubt himself so. He was typically cool and level-headed and confident. But these last few weeks he'd been distant and doubtful. She was beginning to wonder if his words now were merely a symptom of his stress; after all, he worked very hard (too hard in her opinion) to run a business not his own with very little in terms of compensation. Hearing him berate himself hurt her more than he knew.

A glint of hope came to his eyes, and for a moment, she believed he would drop the matter. But then he blinked, and the scowl slowly returned to his face. He averted his eyes and turned away, forcing her to release him. "Allow me to amend my complaint then," he said lowly. "I can't be the man your _father_ needs me to be."

"So that's what this is about," she declared. Her father's expectations for her marriage were an unspoken, unresolved source of tension in their romance. They had never truly discussed the matter before, as Will had never seemed to deeply be affected by the Governor's less than gracious opinion of him. Something had obviously happened to change his tolerance. Though she didn't know why he suddenly felt so inadequate, she was willing to say anything to amend whatever wrong her father had done him. "Will, my father just doesn't see your worth! You're just… not what he envisioned for me." Hurt splayed across his face, and she immediately regretted what she'd said. "What I meant to say," she stammered, "is that his opinion doesn't matter."

He shook his head. In that instance, the shy, scared little boy they had rescued from the water all those years again appeared. "That's not true, Elizabeth," he said. Her heart fell, her spirits sinking into a mire of hurt and hesitation, as she watched a myriad of emotions flit across his fathomless eyes. "It matters." His hands sought hers, and his fingers were strong and warm as they caressed the skin of her knuckles. "There is nothing I want more than to make you my wife," he said softly, staring deeply into her eyes. She couldn't breathe, her heart leaping into her throat and her body washing with waves of elation at those simple words. "But I must do this right. I won't sully your honor."

How could she explain to him that it didn't matter? How could she find a way to tell him he was more than enough for her? "You don't need to prove yourself to me, and you certainly don't need to do so for him. I know what kind of man you are, Will. I knew the day I met you. I knew when I saw your eyes that night. I knew you would come for me. I knew beyond a doubt that you were a good man, pirate or no. Don't measure yourself by their standards." His eyes glazed thoughtfully. Seeing him on the edge of believing her, she went on, hoping to kill the remainder of his melancholy. "What you can provide will be more than enough. We don't need my father's permission to be in love."

Something she said disgusted him; that much was obvious from the broken look of frustration that claimed his face. "Though I was not born a gentleman," he said quietly, "I was raised to be one. I can't rush into a marriage and when I can hardly afford to feed and clothe myself." They were quiet again. Elizabeth didn't know how to feel. She didn't wish to make light of his concerns, but to her, they seemed rather trivial. She was of the opinion that love would sustain them even through the darkest of times, and that his hands would be quite able to make the home she wanted. Perhaps it was naïve to think the life she'd lead as the wife of a blacksmith was one to which she could easily acclimate. Many times when she had pondered the future in bed at night or during a particularly boring teatime conversation a nagging, realistic voice reminded her that marrying Will would entail a fair amount of sacrifice on her part. She had no doubt that he'd labor to the ends of time to give her anything she wanted, but she didn't want to put that upon him, and she was afraid that subconsciously over time she might. The slip of a disparaging word, a callous scowl when things grew too tight for her tastes… She never wanted him to believe himself inadequate simply because she had led an easy life. These things would gnaw at her resolve, and then she would begin to wonder if marital bliss was even possible between two people of such strikingly different social status.

And this thought would turn her stomach. _Of course it is_, she would think curtly, ashamed of her anxieties. _Father will be sure to aid us if we need_. On some level, she realized such an assumption was really misplaced. Her father loved her surely, and he would do anything to see her happy, including offering financial security. But she couldn't imagine hurting Will like that. Vaguely she had always suspected he had no wish to depend on her father to make their life together possible. Now she knew beyond a doubt that he would refuse such aid, even if by some grace her father should submit it.

Elizabeth gritted her teeth. Her hand balled tightly into the silky fabric of her gown, and her eyes narrowed darkly. How she hated this! Was this an advanced, civilized society? It made her sick sometimes to consider that she was no better than any other lady, that she was as much a part of this arrogant, cruel, and ludicrous pattern as any other. Though the Caribbean was far from England, many of the stuffy norms of the British aristocracy had traversed the Atlantic aboard the ships of the fleet like a disease might. It had infested Port Royal, squashing any hopes for a new civilization where a woman might marry who she pleases. Until she had come to love Will, she hadn't truly realized how much the unspoken laws and unwritten doctrines of this silly society disgusted her. She had always loved the stories of the sea and of the pirates who made the waves their home, but it had never bothered her when her father or teachers had disabused her of such unbecoming thoughts. Openly accepting Will's courtship marked the first time in her life she had been denied something she wished because of propriety. Her breeding dictated that she wed a man of power, of prestige, of promise. Like Commodore Norrington.

But Norrington hadn't been the one to save her a year ago. Will had.

And she loved him. Deeply and truly. She loved everything about him. That awkward, nervous smile he gave her, the amazing way his rough hands were always so gentle atop hers, the way the wind took his thick hair and how the sun made his eyes shine… The press of his lips to hers. The way he gazed at her, offering himself completely – and praying it would be enough – to simply make her smile. It had been silly, really, but for so long she had harbored this girlish infatuation with him. He was handsome, after all, and he represented to her a freedom for which she had often longed. Ever since that day he'd been rescued by her father's men as a boy, she had admired the aura of adventure that he had always embodied in her eyes. And she had looked to him, imploring that he returned her affection, and she had been disappointed when, even after all those years, he had still refused to even address her with a token of familiarity. What she had foolishly failed to see was that he _had_ returned her attention with every dreamy, wistful gaze, with every soft utterance of "Miss Swann", with every gentle blush and uncomfortable smile. He was pure and unequivocally good, untainted by the fake nobility of the gentry. He was strong and brave and gracious. And he was hers. She didn't care that she could trace her lineage back generations when he had no family of which to speak. She _loved_ him.

And that should be enough. It should be!

She would make it be. She was nothing if not strong-willed; often her father affectionately complained of her stubbornness. So she put aside her anger, focusing instead on him. She crawled over to kneel in front of him and took his hands from where they rested on his thighs. "You _are_ the kind of man my father respects. I'll make him see that, Will." She smiled widely, and the light on her face gave him no choice but to grin himself. Relieved, she continued. "I'm sure it's only stress that bothers you so. You _are_ the most highly regarded blacksmith in _all_ of Port Royal. It's no wonder that every smart man sends his work to you!" She beamed, happy to see she succeeded in stroking his ego from the not entirely bashful smile on his face. "You must relax. You've worked yourself too hard."

He drew his knees up, resting their interlocked hands on them. His chin came to lie atop them. He sighed contentedly, his eyes lazily slipping shut. "Perhaps you're right," he murmured tiredly. He kissed the smooth skin of her palm.

She smiled softly, pushing an errant lock of hair behind his ear. _And now the truth behind this surprise picnic…_ Her grin grew a bit forced and even more nervous, but she prayed he didn't notice. "And I have just the way for you to forget your woes," she declared quite matter-of-factly. He didn't open his eyes, content to simply lean into her touch as her free hand stroked his cheek. "Certainly you know of the gala planned for tomorrow night. My father has orchestrated quite an event to honor the arrival of Earl Whittenby. His ties to the court and his investments will strengthen England's hold in the Atlantic. He comes to offer a grand investment in Port Royal's trade commission…"

He didn't open his eyes. "I've heard."

There was no hint of irritation in his voice, so that encouraged her. She drew a deep breath, praying he would not object to her proposition. "I would be thrilled if you would escort me to the ball."

For a moment he said nothing, and he didn't move. Then he slowly opened his eyes and lifted his chin from his knees. "What?" he asked quietly, settling a nervous glare upon her. She resisted the urge to shrivel beneath his powerful gaze, keeping her face steady and grinning. "Elizabeth, no." Will shook his head firmly, dropping her hands and folding his legs beneath him. "I… I can't. I don't belong there–"

She sighed and leaned back slightly, frustrated. "And why not?" she demanded. His angry expression melted into one of shame, and he looked away. "Are you not my suitor? Are you not a handsome, generous young gentleman worthy of a lady?" His eyes flashed in irritation. She smiled slyly, and inched closer to him. "Are you so embarrassed of me that you cannot _bear_ to be seen in public with me upon your arm?"

She had meant this as a joke, but he was naïve, gullible, and innocent enough to think she was serious. "Of course not, Elizabeth!" he gasped, his face white and his eyes aghast. "I – I just…" he stammered. The corners of Elizabeth's mouth turned upward slightly in amusement, and his grin slowly returned. It was tentative, but the smile lessened the dread plastered onto his face. He looked away. "I can't dance."

She hadn't expected that. "You can't dance?" she repeated incredulously. Then she laughed, terribly relieved at his admission, for to her hopeful ears it more resembled an acceptance of her invitation than anything else. He offered her a sheepish glance and then averted his eyes once more, his once pale face now coloring in embarrassed acquiescence. "Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Turner, that good Lady Brown, who raised you to be such an upstanding gentleman, _never_ showed you how to dance?" He shook his head. "Well, then. I shall teach you."

He paled a bit. "Right here? Right now?"

"Here and now."

"Elizabeth, I–"

"No complaints, Mr. Turner! You are still my prisoner, and as such, you have no choice but to comply!" She smiled playfully and stood, brushing the sand from her skirt as she did. Then her hands grabbed his and pulled him upward. "Now, on yer feet!" she quipped in her best impression of a pirate's drawl. "I'll have me no clumsy oaf escortin' me, savvy?"

He laughed, stumbling slightly as he rose. "Such talk hardly befits a lady," he admonished sweetly. "And I don't think you'd pass for a pirate. Not with that impression."

"Well," she returned haughtily, "Pretend. I'm your captor, and you will obey me or suffer the consequences."

He leaned heavily into her. The wind swept by, brushing the curls from her neck, but she could still feel the tickle of his warm breath upon her cheek. "And what punishment does defiance warrant?" he inquired, his voice low and husky. The tone sent shivers racing up and down her spine. _This_ was the Will she most enjoyed, the confident, playful young man who emerged from the shy, serious blacksmith when propositioned properly. The lover and fighter. The pirate. His eyes darkened as his face neared hers. Her breath caught in her throat as his mouth dipped lower, teasing hers with an achingly soft caress, before trailing down the smooth skin of her cheek. She could not stifle a small gasp as his lips worshipped her neck, kissing lightly here and there. Heat blossomed within her, but she resisted the urge to succumb to his control.

Smiling, she stepped nimbly away from him, and he nearly stumbled forward in surprise. "You are quite bold," she declared, lifting her chin and steeling her face in an attempt to act unaffected by his advances. In truth, her face felt quite flushed, and she was nearly quivering from his nearness. "And presumptuous. Now, give me your hand." He did as she instructed, and she interlaced her fingers with his. "Your left in my right. And then…" She stepped close to him, so close that the unique scent that belonged to him and him alone filled her with each warm breath she took. He smelled vaguely of the ocean and of the tang of metal and fire. But she refused to be distracted. She took his right hand and slipped it behind her, wrapping it around her waist. "You hold me like this." He stood stiffly, suddenly a bit uncertain. She smirked. "_Tighter_, Mr. Turner." And she pressed herself against him, enjoying immensely the flash of surprise in his eyes. Then she draped her arm about his shoulders. "Now we step. And step again."

They fumbled through the sand. Elizabeth began to sing the melody of one of the more popular songs, emphasizing the beats for his benefit. Will might have been an expert with his footwork in swordplay, but he was rather clumsy and ungainly as a dancer. He stepped on her foot twice, wincing and apologizing upon each instance. Sand was not overly conducive for waltzing, and though her poise never faltered, he stumbled as she directed them in their imaginary song. "Darling," she said, pausing briefly and struggling to keep her face straight as he offered her a frustrated, sloppy grin. "_You_ are supposed to lead _me_."

He sighed, slightly exasperated. He opened his mouth to complain, but she pressed her forefinger over his lips, silencing him before the whine could escape his mouth. "Now, you step first. I'll follow you." He arched an eyebrow but then lifted his chin and stepped to the left. She followed, lifting her skirts slightly as her toes sunk into the warm, soft sand. She began to hum again, her voice harmonized by the rolling sea, as they turned and spun on the beach. "Good," Elizabeth declared proudly. "And now, as my instructor called it, a 'dainty pirouette'." This she said with the utmost snootiness in her voice. She grasped his hand tighter, and on the pivot of a turn, spun elegantly away from him in her best approximation of the ballet. For Will, however, it was not so easy or graceful a motion, and he stepped into her return. His bare foot crushed hers into the sand. With a gasp, she lost her balance, and, teetering, she threw her weight into him. They both went down in a mess.

Elizabeth could hardly catch her breath she was laughing so hard. She landed on him with an "oof!", and Will grunted as her elbow found its way into his belly. She dipped her head, her curls draped about a reddening face, and buried it into the warmth of the nape of his neck. "That… that was hardly dainty!" she managed between loud giggles.

He was moving suddenly. She squealed in surprise as he rolled, taking her with him. He pinned her beneath him. His heat enveloped her, and though he pressed his weight upon her, she felt nothing save his intoxicating strength. "Why do I think you orchestrated this entire meeting for your benefit?" he asked. Her laughter died. Surely he was not angry with her! But she felt him smile more than saw it. His voice was a purr against her neck. "You little sneak."

"Will you fault me for having an agenda of my own?" she asked softly. She ran her hands up his back and was rewarding with the ripple of his muscles beneath her fingers.

"No," he replied. He lifted his head and smiled seductively. "But perhaps _you_ deserve punishment for your duplicity."

She raised an eyebrow coyly and tried to lean upward to protest. But his mouth hotly claimed hers, and her denial was muffled and then silenced by the kiss. She didn't care much, happily relinquishing to him her domination in return for the fires of bliss shooting through her body. She tasted the lingering sweetness of melon as his tongue explored her mouth. She could think of nothing save the power of his kiss. Gently forceful, he teased and tormented, and within moments she was whimpering joyfully into his lips.

He pulled away and looked down at her. His eyes were dark and fathomless. "Are you sure we're alone here?" he asked softly.

_Ever the worrier, William…_ "Quite," she responded quickly. This was somewhat of a lie, as she wasn't entirely sure that no one knew they had taken their luncheon upon this private beach. Well, Melly was aware, for certain, and she was hardly known for keeping secrets… But Elizabeth didn't care. If a slight exaggeration of the truth would encourage him to continue, she was eagerly willing to brush aside decorum.

He gave her a lopsided smile. His thumb began to trace the elegant curve of her eyebrow before sweeping lightly down her face. "You're so beautiful," he commented breathlessly. He leaned down, and then his lips followed the trail of his hand, kissing the flawless skin with tenderness that belied his power. Elizabeth lost herself in the sensations, her heart pounding in heated excitement as his mouth melded with hers again. Her fingers tangled into his hair as he nibbled playfully at her lower lip before dotting a line of soft kiss down her chin and to her neck.

Elizabeth let her eyes slip shut and sank into the sand. A content smile came to her face as Will's capable fingers swept over her collarbones, examining her skin with tender intensity. The wet heat of his mouth was soon to follow. It didn't matter at that moment they were acting completely inappropriately. It was entirely improper and vulgar for a woman of her status to meet with a man unsupervised, let alone allow that man to touch her and kiss her so intimately outside of marriage. She loved him too deeply to deny her hunger for his caress, to ignore her passion.

So she sighed softly and relaxed under the magic of his fingers and lips, letting go of her doubts and troubles and escaping in his loving hands. She gasped at the suddenness of warm lips against the sensitive flesh of her throat, tangling her hands tighter in his hair as he kissed his way down her chest. Her heart was rushing madly, desire depriving her of any reservation or serious thought. It was only when his ministrations disappeared that she thought to open her eyes. "Will?"

He sat up, leaning back on his heels. His eyes were narrowed and fixated again on the horizon, and an intense expression furrowed his brow. Elizabeth wriggled around to prop herself up on her elbows and look behind her. Apparently during their dance, they had whirled about so that they lay on the beach facing the water. She followed his gaze, but she couldn't see anything in the great blue expanse aside from white crests of the waves. "Will, what is it?" she asked, glancing at him through the corner of her eye.

"There's a ship out there," he announced softly, squinting as he gazed out over the water. She looked to where he pointed. The bluffs of the island were steep and sharp, dropping magnificently into the churning waters below. Atop the rocky outcropping were a few of the richer homes of Port Royal's aristocracy, nestled aloft the majestic spread of the Caribbean. She could just see the bow of a ship peek its way around the edge of the massive bluff. Silently they both watched as billowing white sails appeared. It was a grand ship by most standards, perhaps not as large as the_ Dauntless_ was but still quite formidable. Upon its mast flew a great red banner. As it waved and flapped in the wind, Elizabeth could just detect hints of black and silver, but she could not make out its standard. She was certain, however, that it was not familiar. There was something strange about the ship, something dark and almost dangerous though the bright sunlight streamed about it and set it aglow with the shimmer of the sea. She could do nothing but stare at it for a long moment, perplexed and unnerved.

Will voiced the question she had been pondering herself. "Why would a ship approach Port Royal from that direction? The laws of the harbor master are clear enough…" He shook his head slightly, perturbed by the appearance of the vessel in such a place. Elizabeth could hardly blame him. It was rare indeed to have a ship of that size approach Port Royal as such, for the area was littered with rocks and hidden currents that made the path perilous. Most captains with any sense of self-preservation avoided this side of the island and instead approached the harbor itself, despite its congestion.

"Perhaps the harbor is too crowded," Elizabeth heard herself murmur.

Will didn't seem convinced by her explanation. He stood, rising gracefully, his eyes never leaving that ship as it slithered like a snake from behind the bluffs. "I don't recognize the banner," he commented.

Elizabeth sighed, irritated the perfect moment had been ruined. She pulled herself up, wrapping her fist in his sleeve for leverage. "This is silly," she declared, shaking her head and stepping in front of him so that he would be forced to look at her. "The harbor has never been as secure as it is now. The entire British fleet is docked, and more escort the Earl as we speak. No pirate could find his way into Port Royal." Will finally met her gaze, and he smoothly raised an eyebrow as if to question her assertion. "Besides," she continued, "there is no longer a serious pirate threat in the Caribbean. The Commodore has made sure of it."

"No serious pirate threat?" he repeated incredulously. He smirked, breaking the tension of the moment. "The_ Black Pearl_ is still out there."

She smiled. "Yes, well, even though the Commodore has given Jack a wide berth, I don't think he'd be so bold or so foolish as to come anywhere near here right now." This was true enough, at least. Though the Commodore was a rather forbidding figure, he was noble enough to honor a good man when he saw one. And though Jack and Norrington had hardly been allies much less friends during the escapade with the _Black Pearl_, Elizabeth sincerely believed that in this year since Norrington's opinion of Sparrow had been somewhat elevated by her respect for him. A silent accord had been struck between the two men, it seemed. Norrington had made no major effort to again capture the pirate, and Jack had consistently avoided making exploits of the British settlements and ships in the Caribbean. It was as though the two had agreed to remain safely outside the other's grasp.

And it was neither a lie nor a boast to say the waters about Port Royal and its constituents had of late been safer than she ever remembered them being. This was not to say that crime did not persist, or that pirates and prostitutes did not spread filth and disease about the bustling town, or that bars and brothels did not flourish and multiply and attract disreputable, dirty folk like a flame did moths. The heat and rum of the Caribbean bred disorder like few things could, and Elizabeth doubted that Port Royal would ever attain the high prestige or respect of Britain's other colonies. It was too remote, too infested, too treacherous for the aristocrats with their well-to-do manners and expectations of tea and crumpets. This, of course, was one of the reasons that the Earl's visit was so important to the livelihood of the port. It promised interest and investment, and both of which were difficult to obtain from London. Elizabeth knew Port Royal was floundering. Though her father disliked discussing business in front of her, she was not blind to the worry in his eyes or the angry lines of weariness appearing about his lips. The colony's economy suffered from both piracy and lack of support from the trading companies. The Caribbean was generally regarded as a wasteland of villainy, and shipping was too dangerous a prospect for many of the traders and merchants. Norrington had been laboring for months to crush the pirates that made such a reputation warranted, and, for the most part, he had succeeded. If the aim of this visit was to prove to the Earl that Port Royal was a safe harbor for business, ensuring the trade routes were indeed protected was imperative.

It did seem unlikely to her that a pirate ship could infiltrate and ravage the port now, given the heightened security and vigilant guard. Norrington was nothing if not meticulous, and every possible nook in the harbor appeared to be secured. Still, there were so many people in Port Royal, and there was no way to be certain _who_ was roaming about the streets under cover of darkness…

_Silly_, her mind chastised. She shook her head as if to clear it of these thoughts. It had been many months since she'd heard of any sort of pirate attack on a vessel. It was unlikely Port Royal would face such danger again. Ever since she had been captured by the crew of the_ Black Pearl_, she always felt slightly nervous about the prospect of dark streets and unidentified ships. Though she did not regret what had happened (after all, it had been quite an adventure), she had still been terrified and had faced the sorts of demons of which nightmares were borne. Security was not something she wished to take for granted, though at times it was more than easy to forget that beyond the safety of the gates of her father's estate, a terrible, dark world existed where loyalty meant little and life meant even less.

And, as crazy as it seemed, it would make her feel better if Jack Sparrow was hiding in the harbor.

But it appeared to be a moot point, for the mysterious ship with its great red flag was turning out to sea. Elizabeth stood still, peering at the retreating vessel as it grew smaller and smaller. Only when it disappeared did she release a breath she had subconsciously been holding. Will's hand brushed against hers, and she folded her fingers into his. The strength of his grip comforted her. Then she reddened slightly, ashamed of these foolish thoughts, and looked to him. His eyes were still trained on the horizon, scanning as though for ominous signs. After a moment, he realized that she was staring at him, and he met her gaze. He flushed slightly, the tense glare leaving his eyes. Then he gave her a lopsided smile. "Probably nothing," he surmised.

"Miss Elizabeth! Miss Elizabeth!" a winded, high-pitched voice called from behind them. Startled, Elizabeth turned and watched as Melly ran down the path to the beach. The girl had her skirts clenched in her hands as she approached, her face flushed from the exertion. "Miss Elizabeth! Your father's come home early!"

Dread made Elizabeth's stomach sink seemingly into her toes. "Oh, no," she whispered, paling instantly. Her eyes fell to her rumpled gown, to the sand in the lace and trapped in the purple folds. Then her horrified gaze drifted to the blanket cluttered with the remnants of her lunch. She had to hurry!

Melly was beside her then. "He's comin' through the gates, Miss! Come quickly!" The maid was immediately beside her, brushing the sand and dirt from her dress.

Composure borne from a frantic desire to avoid her father's disappointment drove her. "Get the basket, Melly!" she ordered, stepping forward to the picnic site and crouching. She quickly began stuffing the plates and other paraphernalia into the opened basket offered to her by the maid. Will sprung into action too, pulling the blanket from the sand and shaking it. This he slung over his arm, and then he pulled on his stockings and shoes.

Handing the now full basket to Melly, Elizabeth grasped Will's outstretched hand for balance as she replaced her shoes upon her feet. Melly was already upon the path, jittering nervously as the young couple readied themselves. Then they were briskly walking, rushing up the road to the estate silently and with as much speed as possible. Once they reached the top of the hill, they paused. Here the road forked, the right arm continuing to the mansion, and the left heading to the courtyard.

"Can you find your way from here?" Elizabeth breathlessly asked Will. She could hear the clatter of the carriage and the soldiers at the gate welcoming home their lord. Will nodded, trading the blanket to Melly in return for his coat. Anxiously Elizabeth peered through the mesh of leaves, watching as the ornate buggy rounded the turn to halt in front of the palatial manor. The door opened. "I will see you tomorrow then?" She turned to Will again, watching as he stuffed his arms into his jacket and quickly buttoned it. "Five o'clock. Don't be late."

He nodded, his hands taking hers. "Yes."

Joy flowered through her, and she smiled. "Good." She kissed him quickly. "I love you." She squeezed his fingers, hating having to part with him for even this short time. Casting him one last smile, she turned and drew a deep breath. Her hands smoothed her dress and hair one last time, and she prayed she looked presentable. Then she emerged from the forest and went to greet her father.


	3. Preparations and Propositions

**DISCLAIMER:** _Pirates of the Caribbean_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, language, adult themes)

**THE MEASURE OF A MAN**

**CHAPTER THREE: PREPARATIONS AND PROPOSITIONS**

"There we are! Stand still, now." Will struggled to do just that as Hetty Ramsey placed the final pins into the jacket she had chosen for him. The middle-aged woman crouched beside him, muttering around the needles in her mouth as she examined the waist of the new gray garment. Finding the fit of it satisfactory, she rose again, her old joints creaking with the motion. Her hands came to her back, a bit of a wince twisting her portly face. "I'm gettin' too old for this."

Will grimaced. "You don't need to do that. It fits well enough."

"It fits perfectly!" she corrected, removing the pins from between her lips and returning them to an old, stained cushion atop the counter of her shop. The seamstress stepped back, weathered fingers coming to stroke her chin as she admired her work. Will seemed doubtful, looking down at his attire. He'd never been overly fond of gray, so naturally he'd been hesitant of Hetty's decision to outfit him like this for tonight's ball. She had merely smiled and lectured him once more about trusting her. She had, after all, been dressing him since he was a boy. Port Royal boasted a few tailors and seamstresses, but she was the only one who bothered to offer fine clothing to commoners. Mrs. Brown had long been her customer, and when she had died, Hetty had taken special interest in young Will. The shy, lonely lad had come into her shop one day many years ago to acquire an item of Mr. Brown's, and since then she had resolved to offer him a meal when he wanted one and compassion when he needed it. She was a good-hearted woman with many children of her own but also with love enough to spare for the orphaned blacksmith's apprentice. She was one of the few who knew of Mr. Brown's addiction and dereliction of his shop and ward. Though she had never become quite as close as a mother to him, she was kind and loving.

At his hesitant expression, she sighed. "If you don't believe me," she began, somewhat exasperated, "you can see for yourself. Here." She turned him around so that he faced the long mirror of the shop. A tentative smile came to his face as he gazed at his reflection. The long gray coat _was_ elegant. It was certainly the finest garment he had ever worn. Silver buttons lined the breast, and beneath he sported a gray vest over a fine, white linen tunic. The clothes were expertly crafted, and they _felt_ expensive to him. He wasn't sure he enjoyed the sensation, but he had to admit that he looked nice in them. He glanced at his face and was rewarded with a pang of disgust. He had hastily rebound his mussed hair since leaving the shop some hours ago, but a few of the strands had again escaped to hang about his face. A smudge of dirt lined his cheek, streaked by a dried trail of sweat. His eyes seemed dark and ringed by exhaustion. The night before he hadn't had time to sleep, much less wash properly, as he had labored without rest for many hours to complete the Commodore's order. When the last sword had been finished, tested, and polished, he had rushed the bundle to the fort. Norrington himself had inspected Will's work, and though the man had not found fault with any of the blades, he had been quite cold to the blacksmith. Will supposed he should have expected no less. By now, Norrington had undoubtedly learned that Elizabeth had chosen Will to escort her to the ball. Though the Commodore no longer openly pursued her hand, he had never quite accepted Will as her suitor. It was more than likely that the Governor had asked Norrington to accompany Elizabeth to the gala simply so Will would not have a chance, and he did not doubt that Norrington had agreed to the prospect. The Commodore had always looked down upon him, deeming him little more than a street rat. Despite the reconciliation the two had seemingly made that day after Jack's would-be execution, the young man had made little progress since then of proving Norrington's opinion unfounded. He had worked so hard to make something of himself to apparently no avail, for the Commodore regarded him with the same amount of disdain and supremacy as he always had. Perhaps Will shouldn't have cared, but Elizabeth thought highly of Norrington, and that was incentive enough to try to make peace with him.

Will doubted these fine clothes would convince the Commodore that he was a gentleman worthy of the Governor's daughter. That did not sit well with him, but he knew that pleasing Norrington was the least of his problems.

Hetty's voice broke him from his reverie. "There! You see? You like quite dapper, if I do say so myself," fondly remarked the seamstress as she brushed a hand over his shoulders. She stepped around his side, dirty blonde hair escaping from the tight bun atop her head. She licked the pad of her thumb and wiped at the smudge on his cheek. "I do hope you'll at least wash your face and hands before headin' out, Will. You clean up really nice."

He batted her hand away. "I know."

"And remove those whiskers from your face."

He grimaced, his probing fingers inspecting the growing stubble lining his jaw and framing his mouth. Shaving was another task that commonly fell to the sideline in order to finish his work. As he had predicted, Mr. Brown hadn't returned last night. Will had remained awake through the late hours, pounding and sweating at the forge as he fashioned the last swords of the Commodore's order. Sometime just after dawn he collapsed wearily into his bed, not even bothering to undress before deeply falling into an exhausted sleep. When he had awoken a few hours later, he had found his master snoring happily away in his own bed, a slumbering, naked woman tucked under his arm. Disgusted and infuriated, he'd taken his swords and vowed not to return to the shop until absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, that time was nigh, as he would need to go home to wash and prepare. Hetty was right; he couldn't very well appear at Elizabeth's doorstep this filthy and disheveled.

"Well, what do you think?" Hetty asked, grinning at the young man's reflection.

Will looked at himself and felt his spirits sink. He _did_ like these clothes, and he was certain Elizabeth would, as well. However, he was also absolutely sure they were beyond his means. After delivering his order to the fort, he had come here knowing he had nothing proper to wear to such an extravagant event as this ball. He hadn't thought much of it when Elizabeth had asked him to accompany her, and when it had dawned on him, he had felt lost. He knew he really couldn't afford new attire, but the seemingly unreasonable price had become inconsequential when he had remembered the look of pure joy in Elizabeth's eyes. She had been so thrilled that he had agreed to this that he couldn't possibly deny her now. So he had taken what little money he'd had and gone to Hetty, hoping she'd have something simple and inexpensive that he might wear. Will frowned, feeling terrible for having let the seamstress go on when he couldn't pay her for these clothes. "I _do_ like this, but I don't have the money…"

The grin slowly slid from her white face. Will dipped his head, a slow breath escaping him. He began to unbutton the jacket. "Wait," Hetty said, grabbing his hand and pulling it away. Her brown eyes twinkled warmly. "Here, I'll make a bargain with you. You can have these free of charge _provided_ you ask your lady to marry you this night."

Shock mulled over him. "Wh–what?" he stammered.

She met his gaze, hers filled with affection and sincerity. A smile came to her puffy lips. "You can't fool me, William Turner. I know you. You've been hangin' your head for weeks, and there's only one thing that can make a man so miserable." He grunted softly and looked away, somehow annoyed at being so transparent. Hetty was insistent. She was of the mind that getting a problem out was the only way to properly face it, and moreover she was one of the most stubborn and willful people the young man knew. "Doesn't she love you?"

"She does," Will answered quietly. He had no doubt of that.

"And you love her?"

"More than anything."

Hetty nodded, and her warm smile was replaced with a knowing frown. "But it's not that simple," she concluded.

He gave a small, rueful grin. "No, it isn't."

They were silent a moment. Will bowed his head and sighed tiredly. Despondently he made to unbutton his jacket once more, but Hetty shook her head. She laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Few things in life are simple, lad. Strength is knowin' how to make the parts that are complicated easy to understand. Dear Mr. Ramsey used to tell me something, God rest his soul. He used to say that there is only one truth in life: what a man does defines him. Not wealth or reputation or the worth of his father. Whether he does good or bad or nothin' at all… A man is measured by the time he's given and what he's done with it, that's what he used to say."

_The measure of a man…_ Will's thoughts turned sorrow, though a part of him ached to believe in something so ideal. _That sounds like what Jack said. And maybe that's good enough for him. But it's not for me._

"The true question is this," Hetty continued, drawing the young man's attention as she stepped to his front and set about straightening the front of his coat. "And there's nothing more important than it, understand. Can _you_, William Turner, make her happy?"

He was silent a moment, pondering the fact of the question itself and not so much the answer. The response was obvious, and he knew it deep inside him where there existed no doubt or fear. "Yes," he said.

"Then the home you make for her will be all she wants. And if that dissatisfies her father, so be it. Sometimes it's hard to see through the glamour and gold, but you need to remember the Gov'ner just wants what's best for his daughter. On some level, he knows that's you, else he would have locked Miss Swann away in that mansion of his never to see you again. If he doesn't like you, that's his choice and there's nothin' you can do about it. His loss, love, not yours."

"But Elizabeth–"

"– would choose you in a heartbeat," finished Hetty soundly. "Have more faith in her and in yourself. You used to, Will, and I don't know what's changed you so."

His eyes glazed in bitterness. "Too many things."

Hetty's voice gained an annoyed edge. "You think too much, and you're lettin' these things get to you. For a while back you were beamin' like you had the world by its tails. Young love, so said I. And now you drag your feet like you realized that world's a terrible place full of lies and disappointment."

Will looked away. "And it isn't?" he resentfully questioned. In truth, he was ashamed to have her levy his own behavior against him.

"It is," returned Hetty, "but that doesn't mean you hafta let it defeat you. C'mon, Will. I know you, and _this_ isn't right. So Mr. Brown has left you to labor to death runnin' his shop. So nobody gives you an ounce of what you deserve for the work you do. So your father was a pirate." He turned angry eyes to her, his body tensing in sudden ire. "It doesn't matter nothin' to her. You knew that before, and it's high time you remember it."

The words eased their way inside him, sitting well with his stressed, hurting heart. She was right, and at that moment he felt incredibly stupid for letting the Governor's rejection affect him so. Before he had sought Swann's permission, everything had seemed so bright and wonderful. He had worked so hard, spending many hours fashioning iron into swords and locks and repairing cannons and gates, and he had never begrudged the toil. Every shilling he'd earned he had put away, saving it to hopefully secure a small place where he and Elizabeth might live, to pay for the world they could share together. He'd been enthusiastic to the point where he hadn't even minded Mr. Brown's drinking or the disapproving stares he often received as a result of his position as both the suitor of the Governor's daughter and the son of a pirate. He had been flying high, above the dirt and disappointment, soaring aloft on a lovely dream of a simple wedding and a simple life.

The Governor's denial had shattered that fantasy, sending him slamming back to earth. The impact had crushed him.

Perhaps it was time he recovered enough to rise again.

Hetty smiled, immediately noticing the change in his demeanor. A glint of triumph came to her beady eyes. "All you need is a bit of confidence, love." She grasped his shoulders gently. "You're a good lad. You work hard, and you're loyal and smart. You've proven you can take care of her. I don't know if the Gov'ner will ever see that, but I have hope. And even if he doesn't, heaven forbid, that doesn't make you any less of a good lad."

A tentative smile came to Will's face. His eyes softened, and the tautness left his body and spirit. "My bargain still stands," Hetty said seriously. She gave the ensemble in which she had dressed him one final sweep of her analytical eyes before meeting his gaze once more. "What say you to it? Have we an accord?"

Resolution made him warm inside. It was too hard to deny this renewed excitement. Hetty's compassion was too strong, and he couldn't fight his desire to follow her advice. Determination gripped his downtrodden soul and caressed into it hope once more. The doubts that had for weeks plagued him were suddenly whining voices that he could easily ignore. He smiled and nodded. "Thank you."

Her arms swept him into her large embrace, and she squeezed him tightly. "Of course," she responded softly, dropping a light kiss into his hair. Then she released him, smiling tenderly. "Now off with you. Go and enjoy yourself. I got enough kids of my own to worry about without havin' you in my hair as well." As if to reinforce this fact, a cacophony resounded from the back of the shop where bolts upon bolts of cloth were kept. A chorus of children followed, the laughing and shouting creating quite the ruckus. Hetty sighed and pushed Will away, yelling at the little ones to be quiet. He couldn't help but laugh as he collected his clothes and headed towards the door of the small building.

His feet carried him back to the blacksmith's shop with sudden energy, a spring returning to his gait. His mind was away, pondering what the woman had said and his own creeping malaise. It suddenly disgusted him, these apprehensions that had seemingly infested his life, and he had to wonder how he had ever let himself become so depressed. After all, Hetty was right that he'd been foolish to have forgotten the most fundamental of facts. The world _was_ a terrible place, but that didn't mean he had to let it beat him. He was in love, and that was enough. Everything else would work itself out as long as he had Elizabeth.

And she'd made it abundantly clear that she had no intention of leaving him.

He burst into the blacksmith's shop, pausing only to close the door tightly. Then he bounded down the steps and flew into the back area, ignoring the roar of snores emanating from Brown's bedroom. At the end of the darkened hallway were his own quarters, the smallest room of the building. Will barreled into it and sealed the door shut behind him.

He stood there for a moment, leaning back into the sturdy oak, and caught his breath. His heart was pounding and his stomach was twisting into a nervous knot. Swallowing awkwardly, he closed his eyes and hesitated. Though he had thought of it constantly since the day he'd been to visit the Governor, he hadn't once had the courage to look at it, too disgusted and infuriated to bring himself to examine the symbol of his failure. For months it had remained hidden in the depths of the nicked, ancient bureau nestled in the corner of his tiny room. Now it seemed to call to him, beckoning his uncertain heart to again unveil it.

Yet he hesitated. He remembered the Governor's revolted glance and heavy sigh, the sound of his own heart pounding in anticipation, the deafening drone of the silence in his ears. He recalled these things, and that fledgling fortitude buckled.

_This is really pathetic. It's just a ring._

He was in front of the bureau a breath later. He grasped the tarnished handles and pulled open the top drawer. He fished about the meager collection of clean clothes for a moment, and then his probing fingertips brushed against leather. He pulled the small pouch free and shut the drawer. Then he sat onto his bed. The old frame creaked loudly under his weight, but he could hardly hear it over the thunder of his own heart.

Numb fingers worked at loosening the draws of the pouch, and when the mouth of the small bag was open, he tipped it into his open palm. A silver ring innocently fell into his hand. It rested there, glinting in the meager sunlight that streamed through the only window of the stuffy room. He lifted it, inspecting its elegant curves, memorizing again the design. The ring was thin and simple, graced with only a small carving of two swans in its band. The long neck of each bird was curved about the other, and beneath their embrace was a white stone that glimmered in the illumination. As the gem caught the light, it refracted it and splayed a rainbow of colors across Will's face.

It was by no means perfect, and he'd been told the jewel held no real value. But it had been all he could afford. The silver was high quality, at least, for he knew good metal when he saw it. The jeweler in Port Royal had frankly refused to aid him in his search for a ring that he might present to Elizabeth, and given this, he had decided to fashion one himself. Thankfully, he knew from earlier excursions that Mr. Brown kept a few dusty, old books and parchments on jewel craft in the cellar of his shop. After learning all he could, he had purchased the silver and the gem, the latter from a street vendor. And then he'd spent an entire month laboring endlessly into the late hours, molding the silver block into a ring. He'd only been able to find time after completing the day's jobs, and the result of that had been many sleepless nights spent hunched over the bench, working slowly and tediously to engrave the design he'd drawn on an old receipt into the band. He had set the stone carefully, ensuring it fit snugly. Lastly he had scrawled a bit of an inscription into the band, thanking Mrs. Brown all the while for her relentless devotion to perfecting his penmanship.

He tipped the ring into the light and read the little phrase again. _Two As One._ He wasn't a poet or a romantic, and he had never been able to read much of proper literature. The expression had actually come from his mother, harkening back to one of the few pleasant memories he had of her. The words belonged to the lyrics of an old tune she had often sung to him when she had put him to bed. The ballad regaled the tale of a lord and his lady who had become separated by their families in a bitter feud. The war had claimed the life of the lord, and his lady, left scorned and embittered by her lover's death, killed herself in a fit of grief. Will couldn't remember the details of the story anymore, but the chorus still rang in his ears as fresh and as vivid as the day his mother had sung it.

"_Two as one, one ne'er alone._

_A life to live, a death to die;_

_Two as one, one heart, one stone."_

He had always thought it a pretty sentiment. His mother had loved this song for its fantasy and beauty. Upon the few instances that she had spoken fondly of his father, she had told him how she used to sing it to him as well, and how Bill Turner had been enchanted by her voice. Will sighed softly and lowered the ring from the sun, slipping it absently onto his index finger until it was blocked by his knuckle before again rolling it off. He was ignorant of fine things and lavish gifts. This _was_ just a ring, and there was nothing spectacular about it. But it was more than that, as well. He had made it, crafting it of his sweat and hands. He would bestow upon Elizabeth one of his most precious memories. He hoped she would like it.

He had a ring. He had his heart to give her. As Hetty had said, all he needed was a bit of confidence.

Will released a slow breath and tipped his head back. His stomach fluttered. Could he really do this? Somehow it felt wrong, like he was cheating. He felt the little boy again, caught doing something he'd been specifically told _not_ to do. A gentleman did not seek a lady's hand when it had already been denied. But these dark thoughts were overpowered by a greater sense of duty. Duty to Hetty and to himself. To Elizabeth. A gentleman also did not go back on his word.

A bargain was a bargain, after all.

He should have done this months ago. Well, tonight would be the night.

The ring he slipped back into the pouch, and he stood, excitement making his heart beat faster. He smiled and put the leather bag carefully into the pocket of his coat. Then he glanced out the window. The sun was beginning to set, sinking lower as it crossed the sky. He needed to get washed and ready quickly. Five o'clock was soon approaching.

* * *

Elizabeth fought to urge to growl. A snarl was tickling the back of her throat, begging to be set free and properly express her absolute frustration with the current situation. However, she was far too much of a lady to act so coarse or unrefined. Vulgarity was completely unbecoming of her status, and she had been bred and taught all her life to stifle such reactions no matter whether or not they were warranted. And at that moment, a curse would be utterly appropriate, in her opinion. Her time with pirates had done much to expand her vocabulary in that regard, and it had given her the experience to use her broadened lexicon properly. This instance was _most_ fitting.

But as it was, she only cast her father an annoyed glance. "Father, please, I must get ready," she declared, hoping the exasperation in her tone would convince him to simply drop this matter and let her be.

Governor Swann was not so easily dismissed, though, and dissuading him from debating a topic that interested him was all but impossible. The task became even more daunting when the issue concerned his headstrong daughter. "Elizabeth, you know what I think of him," he said bluntly, gently grabbing her arm as she whirled from her closets. She stiffened, hot anger spiking within her, and turned away once more. He sighed, clearly growing annoyed as well. "Would you simply stand still and listen to me?"

The young woman sighed and handed the new gown purchased for this night to Melly, realizing there was no escaping this discussion. The maids quickly went about readying the garment for dressing. "I'm listening," she declared, drawing a deep breath and brushing a loose curl from her face.

Sadness came to her father's brown eyes. She hated seeing him so riled as he really boasted a kind, round face. His nose was long and distinctly English, his rounded chin and high brow bringing nobility to his countenance. His lips were thin and his mouth was surrounded by lines of age and inevitable anxiety. He carried about him an air of regality that demanded respect and could be perhaps a bit conceited but rarely cold or cruel. A great wig covered his head, signifying his wealth and status. Tonight he was dressed in an expensive blue jacket adorned with ornate gold thread and a frilly silk blouse. Though his skin was pale and as unmarked as porcelain, he had weathered his share of defeats and torments. Elizabeth's memories of him before her mother's death grew hazier each day, but she was certain his visage had grown permanently more forlorn after his wife's passing. His eyes had lost a bit of their vigor, and he had never really ascertained that level of vibrant happiness since then. He bore the weight of his position as well. His shoulders hunched more often now, and his face was forever creased with lines of worried weariness. The aspirations of youth had long died, leaving behind a seasoned man that loved nothing in the world more than his child.

"You know how important this evening is to Port Royal," he began, taking her hands in his own. His skin was soft and pampered, having never known the harsh treatment of true work. "To me. We must sell ourselves tonight to the Earl. It is imperative that we appear the perfect model of English aristocracy, my dear. The Crown's doubts in its investments in the Caribbean mount daily." He sighed and pressed a palm to his brow, turning from her slightly. "We must be perfect!"

"And we will be," Elizabeth comforted. Her ire melted quickly in the face of his worry. She hated seeing her father so crestfallen and nervous. As the days wore on, he seemed less certain of his power as Governor and less sure of his capabilities as a leader. She didn't like the metamorphosis.

"Then you understand why Mr. Turner should not be present!" he said, facing her again. His jaw clenched vehemently, and his eyes flashed. "He is _not_ a proper gentleman. He is a blacksmith, not a member of the nobility. He does not belong there."

Elizabeth's rage burned her as she stepped into her private dressing area. She angrily lifted her hair free as her maids fitted a corset about her breast. Normally she would not fathom wearing such a torturous thing, but her father had insisted they present themselves as authentic British refinement, and these awful garments were terribly popular in London. "You speak of him as though he is nothing!" she countered. Her tone bordered on utter insubordination, but she hardly cared. Her father was being terribly close-minded, and she would not stand for it. She raised her arms as Melly began to tighten the stays behind her. "He _is_ a gentleman, and you'd see it if you'd just give him a chance–"

"He's a pirate!"

The maid pulled especially tight, and Elizabeth gasped both from the pain and from her father's harsh words. She glanced behind her as Melly murmured an apology and loosened the garment slightly. The young woman returned her hurt glare to the yellow shade, staring at where she believed the Governor stood. "Please, try to understand."

In a blink the frustrated Governor was replaced with the doting father. "I do, my dear. But I cannot present you to the Earl upon the arm of a blacksmith. He will of course question the boy as to his prospects, and what can Mr. Turner say for himself?" Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest further, but her father continued before she could. "The Earl has a son himself. Surely he will wish to spend the evening with you."

Elizabeth teetered slightly as Melly finished with the corset, almost shaking in the winds of her stormy anger as the breath was forced from her chest by the pressure. "Were Will a lieutenant or the son of a nobleman, you would not be so bold as to promise me to a stranger," she said coolly.

The statement achieved its desired effect. Immediately his face softened. He released a heavy sigh. "Elizabeth, I wouldn't do such a thing." His muffled voice seemed slightly hurt, and guilt eased the bite of her rage. The dress she had chosen was quickly fitted to her. Another loud breath could be heard from beyond dressing partition. "And I know you believe that you love this boy–"

"I _do_ love him."

" – but it is simply inappropriate to parade him about such an important social event!" Elizabeth shook her head as the gown was laced and properly closed about her. "Your duties as my daughter must come first over whatever you might feel towards him, and I cannot have you distracted this night."

Finally she was dressed. She smoothed the satin of the expensive garment as she stepped from behind the partition. The gown was very beautiful. The cloth was a shimmering pale yellow. Pearls were sown into the fabric, dotting the fine material like a rain of stars. The skirt was full, shining beautifully in the sun streaming through the open windows. It swished softly as she walked, the tiny gems twinkling as the light tickled them. She had never worn this dress before tonight, and the lavishness surprised even her.

But she forgot it quickly. Her father was before her, his hands on her shoulders. "Elizabeth, please. I need only call the Commodore and he will be here momentarily to act as your escort. We can compensate Mr. Turner for whatever he might have spent preparing for this evening."

Her face hardened into an icy scowl. "That's terrible. I won't hurt him like that," she declared shortly.

"Make your apologies," he implored. His grip grew tighter, as though by pressing his fingers into her flesh he might transfer to her his will. "Please. I can't have this event ruined."

She pulled away as though his touch scorched her. "The mere fact that you think Will capable of such a thing disgusts me. I've chosen him, and I love him more than I can tell you. That's not going to change no matter how many times you lecture me on your disapproval." They were silent a moment, father and daughter locked in a tense contest of wills. Then his face crumpled with shame, and he grimaced. The pained expression turned her own anger to shame, and suddenly she wished to take back her argument simply for the sake of peace between them. She forced a smile to her lips, desperate to lay this issue to rest, and drew his hands into her own. "Let's not bicker over this. Let's enjoy this evening. I promise you: he will present himself as a _perfect_ gentleman, and the Earl will be none the wiser that he is only a… that he's not a lord himself." Her grin became less forced as her father eventually nodded. He most likely conceded the point for her sake alone, but at that moment she found she was too annoyed to care so long as he let it go. "Now please, father. I need to get ready."

She turned then as though to emphasize her point. It was entirely improper, she supposed, for a daughter to address her father with such an attitude. She had been taught never to speak out of turn, to remain silent and subordinate, to never betray her seemingly endless grace with a sigh or a harsh word. Most of all, raising her voice to her father, _commanding_ a conversation, was entirely uncouth and disrespectful. But she was not about to be bullied or belittled for her decision. And she would not stand for her father insulting the man she loved.

Elizabeth settled herself into a plush chair in front of the vanity and grabbed a handkerchief from the desk to wipe away the bit of sweat forming on her brow. Her eyes settled on her reflection, and keeping them there she found to be more difficult than she wished. She could feel her father's unhappiness as though he emitted it in dark, foul waves. They buffeted against her, leaving her torn between the wish to end this awkward moment with an apology and the drive to protect her romance from his efforts to indirectly squash it. Time dragged on torturously as he stood tensely and she sat stiffly. He sighed loudly. "I shall await your appearance in the foyer, my dear."

"Of course," she agreed, dipping her eyes and blinking back the sting of sudden tears. _No! I'm not going to cry over this!_ She inspected her folded hands as though they were of incredible interest as they twisted and turned the cloth clenched in her fingers. Her heart boomed as his slow footsteps resounded. The steady plodding sounded sad and heavy as he reached the opposite end of her bedroom. The door opened and then shut.

Elizabeth released a choked sigh, irritably throwing the handkerchief down upon the cluttered table. Her face became a pained expression of guilt and anger. A few aggravated tears escaped her sorrowful eyes. "Now, Miss," Melly said, stepping up behind the distressed young woman. "Don't cry!" The maid's voice was soft and understanding as she knelt beside her lady.

"Why must he be so difficult?" Elizabeth moaned piteously. The tears dripped from her chin into her hands.

"Because he loves you," Melly responded, laying a soothing hand on the crown of Elizabeth's head. The young girl smiled gently. "He wants what's best for you. He wants you to be happy."

"But I _am_ happy. Will makes me happy, happier than I ever have been."

"I know, Miss." Elizabeth sighed shakily, swallowing a sob. Melly grabbed the discarded handkerchief and dabbed at the tears upon the young woman's cheeks. "But don't cry. It never solves anything." The maid rose with a swish and stood behind her as she calmed. "Perhaps your Will can show him tonight that he _is_ a good man. It's what you wanted, isn't it?" Elizabeth nodded, sniffling slightly. "Have faith. Now, what shall I do with your hair, Miss? Oh! Trudy, let's set it like that lady's in the boutique that you spoke of…"

Elizabeth sighed, composing herself as the girls worked to ready her. She was the Governor's daughter. She couldn't look anything less than perfect. Besides, she had lured Will into the proverbial lion's den this night. She would do anything to see him protected.

* * *

Later, Elizabeth descended the curved stairs dressed like a queen and yet feeling like a louse. The gown shimmered as she walked, creating an illusion swirling about her figure of a sunset twinkling off of a yellow ocean. Her hair was curled and piled elegantly atop her head, the tresses twisting and turning gracefully in a beautifully intricate design. Inset into the waves of brown were tiny, clear, glass beads that added a sparkle to a sea of honey. The rouge she had applied furnished her face with a certain depth and maturity, bringing a natural blush to bronzed cheeks. Pearls had been fitted to her ears, and about the long, white column of her elegant neck was a pendant of yellow beset by white gems. The expensive jewel dipped into the curve of her chest, drawing the eye to the accent of the pale yellow upon her sun-kissed skin. She rarely felt so lovely, so utterly pampered. Still, she could not shake the crawling sensation that she was dirty somehow, or that she was unworthy of all this flair. Sadness weighed down her heart, and she suddenly wished to hide for all the disappointment she had caused her father. She had no want to attend this ball at all.

But then she saw Will. He was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, and when his eyes fell upon her, a light came to his face that rivaled the rise of a golden sun. Unabashedly he stared, awe gracing his handsome features, as she slowly and carefully walked down the steps. The sight of his admiration, of his joy, of _him_, eased her immediately, and her depression was burned away by the blast of her own renewed excitement.

She smiled sweetly, stopping upon the last of the polished steps. Her anger and irritation of before was all but forgotten. He had such power over her that even the worst of troubles seemed a trivial matter when she looked into his eyes. "Good evening, Mr. Turner," she said softly.

"Good evening, my Lady," he responded, having recovered enough from her glamorous entrance to speak. His hand lifted hers, and he dropped a light kiss to her smooth knuckles. He released a slow breath. "You look absolutely radiant." The comment was a husky whisper, and it made her heart to flutter.

"And you, good sir," she said, grinning happily, "are extremely handsome this eve." He lifted his head, coloring slightly at the compliment. She could tell he was a bit nervous, but he was otherwise composed. He had obviously acquired new attire for the night as he sported a fine gray coat and vest she had never seen him wear before. The cut and craft of it was simple but refined, hugging his slender form perfectly. His dark hair looked freshly washed and brushed, the thick locks bound tightly with a tiny swatch of gray cloth at the back of his neck. He was recently shaven as well, and he smelled vaguely of lotion and soap. She resisted the urge to brush his cheek and feel its smoothness, as he rarely bothered with such a thing habitually.

Even as she gazed upon him now, dressed and groomed finely, she could still see the man she loved. A roguish glint came to his dark eyes as he lavished another kiss upon her hand, this one a bit harder and more lingering. She smiled flirtatiously, enjoying the simple feel of his lips upon her skin. "Such restraint is hardly the proper behavior of a pirate," she teased quietly, leaning ever so slightly closer to him.

"Even a pirate can become a gentleman if his lady wishes it."

A sudden memory of his hands roaming her body, of his lips teasing her mouth, of his weight atop her, slipped into her mind and wreaked havoc with her sense of gravity. "Only for this one night," she warned, leveling a seductive stare at him. "Then I want you back as you were."

He grinned, lifting his mouth from her fingers. "Aye," he answered in a low grumble.

"Excuse me."

At the sound of the Governor's voice, Elizabeth blanched. Will dropped her hand and stepped back from her as if she had turned into a monster, his eyes wide and his face paling. The Governor approached from one of the side rooms, his hands clenched behind his back and his shoulders tall and stiff as he stepped closer. A look of sheer disapproval made his face taut and threatening. "Good evening, Governor, sir," Will stammered, locking his hands behind him and straightening his stance. He lifted his chin, and Elizabeth saw him swallow uncomfortably.

The Governor offered the riled young man a harsh glare. "Good evening, Mr. Turner," he replied coolly. "It is nice to see you again."

Will visibly stiffened, and again Elizabeth wondered what had transpired between the two of them to bother him so. But the blacksmith recovered his poise quickly, bowing slightly to his lord. "Thank you, sir," he responded as smoothly as he could. Will glanced at her, but she could not gather from his guarded expression the nature of his distress. She made a mental point to question him directly about it later.

Her father looked to her as well, but his visage remained tense and irate. "And though I am… _content_ to have you as a guest among us tonight, I will not tolerate such behavior towards my daughter, _especially_ when we are in the public's view. She is a lady, not some common girl you can fondle."

"Father!" Elizabeth gasped in appalled shock, her anger returning sharply. Her eyes flashed venomously as she stepped down the final stair to stand between her father and her suitor. Will was pale, cringing slightly as though he had been physically struck. "That was entirely unwarranted!"

But the Governor did nothing save stare coldly at Will. Elizabeth looked away from him, fuming and disgusted. It was so out of character for him to be cruel. Her mind churned frantically, the heat of her rage fueling its machinations. Vaguely she knew her father was simply acting so meanly towards Will to punish her for her behavior. The man was hurting from their earlier argument, it seemed, and she couldn't help but wonder how deep this festering wound went. After all, her invitation to Will was perhaps the culmination of months of disobeying his silent but ever-pressing wishes. The Governor loved his daughter too deeply and strongly to ever mar her or hurt her, and thus he was left with one open (and terribly easy at that) target at which to strike. _You won't scare him away by hurting him. I won't let you!_

A tense silence pervaded the room until one of the butlers appeared at the grand entrance to the mansion. "We're ready for you, sir," commented the man as he waited patiently by the door.

The Governor nodded. "Well, let us be off. I don't want to keep the Earl waiting." He turned, then, and offered his arm to his daughter. But Elizabeth wouldn't be dissuaded, no matter his rude behavior. She stepped to Will and presented him with a firm, trusting gaze. This seemed to restore a bit of his trampled esteem, and the young man drew a deep breath before taking her hand elegantly and resting it in the crook of his elbow. Then she smiled lovingly at him, holding his eyes with her own and communicating a silent apology and a wish for toleration. Will nodded ever so slightly, understanding her without words, and returned a small grin of his own. After, Elizabeth lifted her head, and the two of them walked out of the manor.

Outside the sun was sinking to the horizon. Golden light spread over the young couple as they exited. The sky was still vibrantly blue, but the first streaks of yellow and red were beginning to appear in the west as sunset approached. The day had cooled slightly, and the birds were commencing with their evening songs, their pleasant melodies rising in the air. Nature seemed poised to deliver a lovely twilight, and Elizabeth hoped with every ounce of her being that the night would be so wonderful, that her father would simply relax and let his prejudices go, and that Will would prove to him the man he was.

But the eastern skies were dark, mottled with billowing, black clouds that heralded wind and rain. A storm was approaching, one grand and ferocious with ominous thunderheads threatening violent lightning and a merciless sundering. Without a doubt it would come. Still, as Will helped Elizabeth climb into the waiting carriage, she was simply too enveloped with hopes of perfection to notice that the coming night would be anything but.


	4. To Pillage and Plunder

**DISCLAIMER:** _Pirates of the Caribbean_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, language, adult themes)

**THE MEASURE OF A MAN**

**CHAPTER FOUR: TO PILLAGE AND PLUNDER**

Perhaps surprising some, the pirate city of Tortuga simply adored gossip. One might not expect strong affection for scuttlebutt to exist in such a place, where the cleanliness and soft arrogance of British society was a distant thing to be mocked and mutilated. And yet, in the brothels and taverns, over mugs of rum and frothy ale, under ringlets of smoke and between hiccups, brawls, and other tasteless activities, the denizens of this dirty little hole could whisper and exaggerate with the best. Tales of raids, pirates, and women were as abundant and about as full of credibility as the discarded bottles lining the street were full of rum.

Still, it was hard not to listen, and harder yet not to believe. Even a visitor as experienced and well-versed as Gibbs commonly found himself catching the snippet of some hushed conversation and wondering at the truth behind the slick and quiet words. As a pirate, he knew well the value of being apprised of the movements of _other_ pirates. It did a ship and crew little good to wander into a plunder already underway or to accidentally cross swords with an enemy hopefully forgotten. He liked to be aware of the most recent conquests, so a mistake was never made in calculating a plausible and lucrative target, thus preventing embarrassment. He also preferred to be informed as to _how_ other crews fared. To say there was not competition in this little, black world would be a blatant lie; like any other nook of society, a man labored, often to incredible lengths, to prove himself the better captain, the better scoundrel, the better pirate. And, as silly and ridiculous as such a thing might sound, it was a game many took very seriously. To be the scourge of the Caribbean was a title ferociously coveted.

So this night, as he sat at the bar and tried to drink himself into a fairly pleasant stupor, he parsed through the conversation humming about him in a quest for tasty morsels of intelligence among the drunken shouts, pleasured cries, and angry curses. As usual there was some damned brawl going on in the back of the bar, and it was creating quite a deafening ruckus. _Damn pigs,_ thought Gibbs disdainfully. He lifted his head and glanced behind him. Like most fights in Tortuga, this particular engagement seemed to be over a woman. The doxy stood to the side of the rolling and struggling brutes, smiling smugly with her hands upon her hips. Gibbs shook his head in disgust, growling and turning back to his drink. _Like there ain't another woman waiting._

He took a long swig of his tankard. The rum here was too sweet for his tastes, and his rear was starting to ache smartly for sitting crouched on this barstool for too long. It was too loud and unruly in this particular tavern. He wanted to achieve a state of alcoholic bliss, free of interruption. Here someone backed into him every few minutes it was so crowded, and the barkeep had already proven himself annoyingly slow with refills. He sighed, quite miffed with the prospect of moving to another bar but completely unwilling to suffer the disorder of this one.

A particularly large, smelly brute decided the matter for him by jabbing him quite unceremoniously in the side. Gibbs nearly choked on his rum. "Watch it, ya damned drunk!" he snapped, turning to face the clumsy oaf. But the man was already lost in the crowd. Quite vexed, Gibbs swore, reached into a grimy pocket, slammed a few shillings down on the nicked bar, drank the rest of his rum in one gulp, and left.

Outside, were it not for the stench of garbage and the constant noise spilling into the street from the many establishments, the night might have been pleasant. There were stars overhead, still faint with a new twilight, and a cool breeze had come to relieve the sweltering heat of day. Gibbs stood there a moment, drawing deep breaths to rid himself of the smell of suffocating smoke and sweat, watching the sky absently. Then he grunted and looked away, lamenting the lost moments. A man didn't come to Tortuga to ogle the stars and long for the sea. A man came here to drink and partake in pleasurable ventures. There would be many nights to watch the sky and feel the sea caress with wind and spray and roll beneath him. He'd been on shore for hours, and he _still_ wasn't drunk.

And that was a failure he planned to rectify immediately.

But Gibbs was above all a man who believed in luck. Perhaps it was a silly philosophy for a pirate. After all, a true man of the sea depended on nothing save himself. He was not chained to fate or happenstance or any other such nonsense, as the ocean was nothing if not unpredictable, and when things went poorly, there was rarely anybody to blame. Good fortune was too fickle a mistress for most, and when it mattered she never remained faithful. No, a pirate must master his destiny as he did his ship. This seemed a good enough attitude, but Gibbs was too seasoned to believe in such a farce. Idealism was for the naïve, and superstitions had served him well. No man was so grand as to command his own fate.

Along the street, slouched outside the tavern and propped up against its dingy wall, sat two men. One had a bottle of rum clenched in his hand. He waved it as he spoke, his words slurred with drink. "So you see, I asked 'im where dey were headed, and he says to me, you know what he says… _Port Royal!_" This he exclaimed boisterously, and his uncouth companion nearly choked on his laughter. It was amazing how a little alcohol turned the most inane and purposeless conversation into the world's funniest joke. The two guffawed rudely for a moment, one displaying a terrible smile of rotting teeth as he did. Then the first recovered enough to speak. "Port Royal, I says, are you crazy, man?" The jug of drink was passed, the dark liquid sloshing over the lips of the vessel to spill to the dirty road. "Ain't nobody gettin' in there, 'specially not now."

"Why not now?" asked his friend dumbly, the expression of glee disappearing into a stare of vacant confusion.

"Ya dunce!" The first man cuffed his cohort upside the head before downing another mouthful of rum. "Dere's dis high-and-well-to-do in the city now. Seems some mighty Earl is acomin' from the homeland, you know, all business-like and what not…" The man shook his head, dirty locks of thinning black hair framing his narrow face. "And I says to 'im, I says, you don' wanna be headin' that a way. All of the damned Royal Fleet's been watchin' da waters, and there ain't no way you can possibly make good on dat place."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow in curiosity, turning slightly so as to hide his eavesdropping. He doubted the two drunken sailors were aware of his presence. For a moment he considered simply continuing on his way, for these two were undeniably intoxicated and were probably spewing a belly full of lies. But he didn't. Luck had had him hear this conversation, and he didn't take such things likely. Life was too random for coincidences.

"And den he tells me that 'is mates'll do it."

"His mates?"

"Ya. Some ship. _Andrea Adora_, I think he called it."

"Never 'eard of it."

_Me neither,_ thought Gibbs. "Bunch of younguns out fer adventure or somethin' of the like prolly. I tell 'im that ain't nobody touchin' Port Royal, and den he goes on about this man dey prepo – prosit – _propositioned_ at the harbor er somethin'. Sounds like a plan, but you never know. I think it's a damn fool's plot, but to each 'is own!" The man sighed contentedly and then started to chuckle again. "I figger their funeral is our laugh! Once them navy ships is gone, then we can strike."

Their conversation turned to the prostitutes they had recently found, and Gibbs made his exit, the thought of hearing of their exploits in the night turning his stomach. He walked a bit, and though Tortuga was wildly alive with music and shouting and light around him, he was blind and deaf to it. His mind chewed upon that conversation. Something… _irked_ him about it, and he couldn't discern what was so troubling. He as well had heard of the heightened security about Port Royal. He hadn't been there since the little escapade that year past. Captain's unspoken orders.

But would the captain care if somebody _else_ touched it?

"Not bloody likely," Gibbs grumbled. He lifted his head and narrowed his eyes, realizing suddenly that his feet had subconsciously carried him to the entrance of another tavern. Golden light spilled into the street from old windows and an open door, inviting him to come inside and finish his quest for inebriation. But he hesitated. It just didn't sit well with him. And he figured that if it was bothering him this much, it was probably important. _Might as well tell him,_ he decided, turning away with a sigh. Getting drunk was as sure as hell not a good enough reason not to.

* * *

As the carriage descended a gently winding path and the grand, glowing ballroom came into view, Will's stomach twisted into knots. He'd been quite proud of himself earlier as he'd been collected enough so that he thought (or at least had grounds to hope) that he hadn't showed it. Now he felt the color drain from his face, and his eyes widened subconsciously as he beheld the palatial structure. He'd had no idea that the Governor's estate was so massive as to encompass this seemingly remote and beautiful locale. In fact, he hadn't been aware such a palatial building even existed in Jamaica. This was the sort of magnificent place of which he'd only heard, and as they drew closer, the buggy rattling lightly as it bounced along the dirt path, he felt a cold sweat tickle the back of his neck. His heart began to pound, and he felt slightly sick. It was suddenly beginning to occur to him that he was entering a completely foreign world, a world in which he didn't belong.

Nervous was too modest a term. He was undeniably and unequivocally _terrified._

"Don't gawk so," Elizabeth admonished softly from beside him. Her smooth hand grasped his from where it rested on his knee and gave him a gentle squeeze. Irritation stung him; that was certainly easy for her to say! He ripped his eyes from the window and skewered her with an annoyed look, but she smiled sweetly and swept her thumb lightly over his knuckles. "And don't worry. It will be fine." These last words were a whisper of confidence, and he couldn't stay angry with her. Perhaps her faith in him was unwarranted. He didn't know how to conduct himself at such an event. He didn't know how to act or what to say. Worse still, he felt the fool for imagining himself capable of finally asking Elizabeth to marry him amidst all the gold and glamour of this distant realm.

The ring felt heavy in his pocket. Heavier than it should have.

_Don't be such a coward,_ his mind harshly admonished his despairing heart. _You've stolen ships, braved storms at sea, narrowly escaped drowning, and battled undead pirates. You can handle a small party._

His eyes were drawn outside again, to the pretty blur of darkening leaves and flowers. They approached the ballroom, and it was anything but _small_. Great windows lined it, shedding golden light into the twilight sky. The construction was magnificent. Pale stones rose high and elegantly, bringing an ethereal glow to the sides of the ostentatious building. From this vantage he could see its central design was a long, tall room, undoubtedly the locale of tonight's festivities. A few balconies extended into the night. The lengthy section was flanked on both ends by a rise of a series of three towers, which were most likely housing of some sort. Finally, the complex continued on the west end into a smaller foray of rooms, these fitted with large, expensive windows, marking the place of dining rooms and meeting chambers. Truly this was a social building, designed to ensure the safety and comfort of guests and promote Port Royal as a wealthy, prosperous, and proper civilization.

He looked away as they continued toward the western entrance, finding the sight unnerving to say the least. Yet there was no easing focus for his eyes inside the carriage. Governor Swann sat in front of him, erect and proud, leaning on a white cane. Will chanced a quick glance at him and was greatly disturbed by what he saw. The man was veritably fuming. His dark eyes were hard and malignant, glaring harshly in Will's direction, but glazed as though the man was caught in a storm of troubling, vexing thoughts. He was still, his smooth face twisted into an expression of dismay. His fingers tapped methodically against the polished pommel of his cane, and the steady thumping of those pale digits became a thunder to Will's ears. Tension, thick and suffocating, hung on the air. The Governor seemed understandably unhappy (Will had, after all, expected no less), but the man was noticeably nervous. _At least we are alike in that respect, _Will thought bitterly. The part of him that was still aching fiercely from the other's scathing comment from a few minutes passed was greatly pleased that his presence was so upsetting the other. A greater part of him was too tightly tethered to Elizabeth and her love to stand for such sadistic bitterness, and once more he found himself pondering what he planned to do this night. Like waves swelling against the shore, he was oscillating between almost giddy excitement and utter despair. At this particular moment, he felt rather silly for bringing the ring, for considering such high aspirations a possibility. For even agreeing to involve himself in this mess. _He despises me. I can't do this!_

But it was too late to turn back. The carriage came to a stop, and Will bit the inside of his lower lip to stifle a short breath of nervous misery. He glanced outside the window to see the line of red-garbed soldiers awaiting the Governor's arrival. Beautiful flowers that were perfectly pruned turned bright petals to the dying daylight, bringing a bit of a rainbow to the stone walk leading to the open entrance. Guests were arriving in expensive carriages of their own, the horses' hooves clicking loudly on the cobblestone courtyard as they arrived, and butlers and stable boys rushed to see they were properly aided from their vehicles. The area was buzzing with activity, but Will found he could hardly concentrate on the flurry of movement he was so mortified.

The doors to the carriage came open on both sides. _What to do?_ Will wondered for a moment as the cheerful face of one of the butlers appeared before him. Mrs. Brown's instructions had rarely ever failed him in the past, and even now they came to his rescue. Her firm words flitted across his muddled mind. _"Never allow a lady to step down without proper assistance. She is delicate thing, meant to be aided, and it is the gentleman's task to bravely lead her into every venture, novel or trivial."_

Well, contrary to appearances, Elizabeth was certainly _not_ delicate; she was strong and powerful, a fact proven to him completely many times in the past. And she did not care to be led about, even by him. But the behavior seemed appropriate enough, as he'd often seen gentlemen help their wives or daughters from carriages as they went shopping in Port Royal. So he nodded to the butler and rose as elegantly as he could as he stepped down from the carriage. His knees felt rubbery and awkward and his heart was pulsing madly in his throat, but he held his head high and nodded to the butler as the man greeted him. His long legs quickly carried him about the carriage, but as fast as he was, he was simply not fast enough. The Governor had already stood, and Elizabeth's hand was clasped in his own. The man cast Will a warning glare as his daughter rose from the carriage, stopping the young blacksmith immediately. Elizabeth stood and looked over her shoulder at him as her father began to escort her inside. Her eyes were wide, filled with hurt and anger, and Will stepped forward instinctively at seeing her distress. But it was too late. The two of them were already walking gracefully along the path and into the brightly lit estate, and he had no choice but to follow behind them.

Will's misery was lessened, though, by the sheer awe of this place. As he stepped inside, his shoes clacked softly against the floor, and he came to realize almost instantly that the marble beneath him was expertly polished. Without blemish or fault, it glowed, radiating the light blasting from an ornate crystal chandelier suspended some twenty feet above them. This mere entrance foyer was perhaps the grandest, most majestic room in which he had ever stood. The ceiling was vaulted, and from this vantage it seemed to Will that the dark beams were engrained with glittering gold. These massive shafts of wood continued down the walls, and closer to the floor they became ornately inlaid with designs. Long banners hung from the junctions where the ceiling met its supports, flowing beautifully to the ground and telling silent tales in tapestries of vibrant color. Ahead were two large staircases, each bending outward to form a massive horseshoe shape that extended from a striking balcony. These were adorned with wide, scarlet rugs that looked new and hardly used. The balcony led to another room, the nature of which Will could not see from below. However, he very quickly became certain this was the center of the event, as the flow of people about seemed to be lazily heading towards it.

As he followed the Governor and Elizabeth, he couldn't help but stare at the people about him. He had never been amongst so many aristocratic citizens before this night, and the feeling was strangely exciting and intimidating. Of course he'd known a fair number of the English nobility had decided to brave this "uncivilized", new world, and he had seen these folk every so often in the more dignified locales of Port Royal. This was, though, the first time he'd ever been so close to them, and he felt woefully misplaced. All around him was a rainbow of colors, the gowns of the ladies fine and more often than not garishly beautiful. The women walked daintily, their hands wrapped carefully about the extended elbows of their lords, touching as though by necessity rather than personal preference. The room glittered with jewels and smiles. Men milled about, discussing political affairs and other issues of import, their hands gloved and their stances tall. Most seemed arrogant and pompous, looking down their noses at any they deemed of lesser standing. Rich wigs adorned their heads, and they as well were dressed lavishly in expensive coats and frilly blouses. Will glanced down at his own attire and winced. He was terribly obvious, sporting a nice coat certainly but nothing so wealthy or opulent as these gentlemen boasted. They patted their ladies' pale fingers with digits equally delicate and white. His hands were bronzed and callused, and there was still a small amount of dirt about his nails that he'd been unable to completely clean. They were confident and poised as they spoke and walked, sure of their status, of their wealth and breeding, of their purpose and power. He was a blacksmith, a boy with no breeding to be certain, the son of a lowly pirate and a whore.

While he'd been observing the others, his feet had carried him up the left staircase. Now he stood upon the balcony behind the Governor and Elizabeth. They seemed to be waiting in a line, or the aristocratic version of some such thing. Curious, he glanced over the Governor's shoulder. A lord and his lady were in front of them, and the tall man leaned slightly to his left to whisper something to a man standing between the two rooms. Then the second man nodded, bowed slightly, and called in a crisp, clear voice, "Captain Jonathon Pennings and his wife, Lady Catherine Pennings."

Will blanched. They were announcing the guests. It made good sense. After all, this was an event of extreme social importance, and these were people of prestige. Their station warranted such treatment. Terror spiked inside him, turning his blood to ice water. He was a commoner with a terribly common surname.

Elizabeth looked behind her again as she and her father approached the man declaring the guests to those in attendance. Her eyes met his, and though he tried to steel his face to show to her he was not perturbed, he knew she saw through his farce. She seemed about ready to wrench her arm free of her father's grasp and run to him, and Will wished she could be so bold. He felt awfully alone. The Governor finished whispering to the other man, and then he said something low and scolding to his daughter. She turned her wide eyes away from Will after that. "Governor Weatherby Swann and his daughter, Miss Elizabeth Swann," proclaimed the man in a calm tone.

The two began to descend the stairs on the other side. Then it was his turn.

"Your name?" The man looked to him with beady black eyes. He was old, his skin splotched and very white. Will could see the veins reach like spidery blue fingers about his face. He prayed the other would not recognize him or his name.

"William Turner," he replied. The words sounded weak and unworthy to his own ears, but he clenched his jaw and lifted his head slightly. He admonished himself for the burst of shame. He had no reason to feel that way. Elizabeth wouldn't stand for it.

The other raised a thin eyebrow and met his gaze with a doubtful and disparaging glower. It was more than obvious from his disgusted expression that this old codger knew the likes of a commoner when he saw one. "That's all? No title? Just William Turner?" He sniffed sharply, as though repeated the name offended him.

"The Second," Will appended rapidly. The man looked slightly taken aback and even more miffed at his curt response. Truthfully he had surprised even himself with such a response. But it had been the only thing he could think to say. Something inside him hurt, though, and the pain was familiar enough. He didn't know if he respected his father enough to openly admit his lineage. At times, he wasn't even sure he loved his father. His words from the picnic yesterday returned to him, carrying with them a sense of cold bitterness. _All he left me was his name… A common name._

The man eyed him warily. "Very well, then," he said with a sigh, as though he had acquiesced simply to rid himself of Will's presence. He then raised his voice and turned to the ballroom once more. "Mr. William Turner, the Second!"

Perhaps it was merely a figment of his overactive and at the moment extremely paranoid imagination, but he thought the hum of conversation in the room beyond hushed. He felt eyes turn upon him as he began to descend the grand staircase. He lowered his own gaze to his path, his gooseflesh prickling under the strength of many disapproving glares. He had never before felt so strange and unwanted, so completely alienated, and the experience was decidedly unpleasant.

"Why, Mr. Turner!" Will stiffened, recognizing the voice almost immediately. It was Gillette, one of the Commodore's lieutenants. The blacksmith cared little for this particular officer, as he was haughty and quite rude. That combination made the man almost insufferable. Gillette never allowed an opportunity to assert his superiority slip through his greedy fingers, and from the smug look plastered upon his young, smooth face, Will concluded this night would be no different. The lieutenant approached, sporting his fine dress uniform. A retinue of other officers (the names of which Will cared not to remember) followed. "Fancy meeting you here," Gillette declared with a mock tone of surprise in his voice.

Will narrowed his eyes. _Yes, fancy that. _As much as he disliked Gillette, he could not disrespect an officer of the British Royal Navy without serious cause, and especially not when he was so seriously outnumbered. "Good evening, sir."

"Yes, well, though the night is young, I do hope you remember to retire early enough. One of the blades you delivered seemed quite flawed, and I simply _detest_ sparring with a damaged sword. Surely your master oversees your work. Well, do have him inspect it this time, _boy_." This he said loud enough so that all those around him could hear.

There came a chorus of laughs from the men, and Will gritted his teeth. He flushed with anger; every muscle in his form was taut with humiliated rage. This time he could not stifle a retort. "A sword is only as good as the hand that wields it," he commented coldly, narrowing his eyes.

Gillette's face fractured in surprised rage. "Why, you little _brat_–"

"Mr. Gillette," came a stern tone from behind them. Gillete's eyes widened slightly and the color left his cheeks. He turned to face Norrington, who stood with his shoulders firmly squared and his hands clasped behind his back. The Commodore's glare was dark and annoyed as he beheld his subordinate. He was a tall, powerful man, gifted with a serious, regal air that demanded respect. His face was smooth and noble, his chin slightly rounded and his forehead high. Lips that rarely smiled were pressed into a thin line, and he exuded a potent aura of command. Dark eyebrows were straight, adding gravity to his face, and his eyes were intense and ardent. Few men openly contested the orders of the Commodore, for Norrington was an intimidating force. He had achieved a high rank at a relatively young age. He excelled at naval combat and strategy, and his men venerated him. To the best of his knowledge, Will was among the few who had ever defied him. Soreness still existed between the commoner and the Commodore, and though Will was hardly so proud or cruel as to boast a victory, he was still pleased that he had managed to best Norrington when it had come to rescuing Elizabeth. The man was haughty, secure in himself and his opinions, and such conceit did not sit well with Will. Since that day, when Will had saved Jack from the gallows and Elizabeth had accepted his love, a thick tension had come between the two men. Norrington had come to realize that Will, despite his limited means and regrettable breeding, was formidable enough to win Elizabeth's heart and take her from his capable hands. And the young man sincerely doubted Norrington had ever accepted that. "That is quite sufficient," the Commodore said lowly.

Gillette flushed in anger. "Sir, yes. My apologies," he responded, coming to attention quickly. He shot a heated scowl in Will's direction as though to blame him for enticing the lieutenant to insult him with his mere presence. Will's expression hardened, but he could not deny the tinge of pleasure coursing through him at seeing the disagreeable man scolded for his behavior.

The Commodore held Gillette paralyzed with his stare a moment more before turning hard eyes to the young man. "Mr. Turner," he said in greeting, his voice a tad softer.

"Commodore," responded Will.

There was a moment of awkward silence. It was a rare occurrence indeed to see the Commodore waver in his poise, but he certainly appeared a bit riled in this bizarre situation. After all, Norrington was quite accustomed to dealing with a blacksmith's apprentice, one he could easily order about and one who was bound by decorum and societal castes to obey. At this ball, they had entered into a different, novel arena, and all standard behaviors and normal attitudes seemed suddenly inadequate. At this particular moment Will was no simple blacksmith's apprentice who would do well to remember his place. He was Elizabeth's guest, and Norrington would never besmirch her honor.

Norrington's moment of insecurity ended as quickly and abruptly as it had come. "Be on your way, Turner," he commanded. His tone held to it no heat, but it also left Will no chance to protest or debate. It was clear from his hard jaw and stony eyes that, though he had prevented Gillette from making the already embarrassing scene worse, he had no wish to remain in the Will's company any longer than necessary. Perhaps he was more refined than to blatantly spit his disgust as Gillette had, but he was no less discomforted by Will's entrance into their realm.

Fury made Will's heart thunder as he turned away and continued down the stairs. Anger burned hot and acrid within him, and his body tensed, his hands clenched into fists beside him. Though the situation had been diffused, the damage had been done. Those close enough to hear the engagement were now whispering to their companions. Rumors begot much the same, and they spread like a rampant, opportunistic disease. As he reached the floor, words came to him, spoken softly and delicately. From the mouths of these pampered ladies and smug men, they were knives sheathed in golden scabbards.

"There! That's him. Miss Swann should really know better."

"He is a commoner, after all, and quite below her station. The Governor truly ought to stop this silly romance of hers. It will go nowhere, mark my words."

"Imagine a girl of her breeding consorting with a boy like that! Vulgar thing! And Mr. Brown drinks like a pig, so my butler tells me. No wonder the boy is as he is."

"He doesn't belong here."

"What _is _he doing with us tonight?"

"Scandalous! I cannot believe he would be so bold!"

"Who does he think he is? He's a peasant!"

"An orphan, no less."

"I heard he is the son of a pirate. A pirate! The thought of my own daughter reveling with such a crass wretch simply turns my stomach."

"The Governor should really have him hung. They do not simply change their ways. If he was born a pirate, he will always be a pitate. They all deserve nothing less than the gallows."

"Will." The sound of Elizabeth's soft call shattered the hold his rage had upon his senses, and he turned. She stood behind him, apparently having found strength or reason enough to free herself from her father's vise-like attentions. Will darted an apprehensive gaze to the Governor, finding the man deeply engrossed with greeting his guests. He didn't like the thought of stealing a moment, of using Swann's distraction, to speak to her. It felt disgustingly wrong to him, like he was being cheated and abused. The thought of not seeing her at all, though, was far more disturbing, so he quieted his anger.

Her eyes were wide, nearly glistening in the golden light. She was striking, enchanting. He had never seen her so beautiful, but the pain on her face and the hurt in her gaze made his heart throb. "Will, I'm so sorry," she whispered. She looked as though she yearned to touch him, but the bonds of propriety had tied her hands and manacled her heart. "I didn't know they would be so… so… I shouldn't have asked you to do this. I'm so very sorry."

They already hated him with such prejudice that giving them another reason hardly mattered. He stepped closer to her, his hand seeking hers. Tentatively she accepted the caress of his fingers. She gazed at him with such open apology, with such adoration and imploration, that whatever fears he had harbored, whatever doubts that had plagued him, whatever hurt he'd sustained suddenly seemed inconsequential. He was strong because of her. "I'd understand if you left me here…" Her voice betrayed her, cracking slightly under the weight of her anguish.

"No," he said softly, his thumbs tracing the length of her fingers. "For you, I'd face all the cruel comments in the world. And I would tell those that spoke them that we are madly in love, and that they are fools for doubting that…" His voice dropped to a whisper. "And I would fight for your honor, and stay forever at your side, should you only ask it of me."

She smiled at that, tentatively at first, and then wider as he grinned as well. "I know," she said softly. Her eyes twinkled, and in a blink it seemed her moment of tearful apprehension had disappeared. There was a shuffle behind them. Her father was coming. "Wait for me?" Elizabeth pleaded quietly.

"Forever," he said. And he meant it. He meant it with all his heart.

The Governor was nearly upon them, bringing with him a world of dances and demands, of propriety and power. "I'll find you," she vowed. "I promise." Then, in a flash of dazzling yellow and honey she turned to meet her father, and the smooth warmth left his hands.

Will watched her slip into the crowds of ladies and lords. She shone like a star among them, luminous and dazzling. He stood, observing her slip her arm into her father's. Doing nothing as she smiled pleasantly to a young man beside a lavishly dressed, elderly lord who was undoubtedly Earl Whittenby. Hating himself for his inadequacy as the youth placed a chaste kiss upon her hand. Wondering how life could be so cruel as she was whisked away from him upon the arm of another man.

Norrington cast him a warning glance from the Governor's right. That was enough to beat his already bruised pride into complete submission, and Will stepped away. He slipped to the side of the room, a gray ghost lost in the splendor of the richest colors. Silent and utterly alone, he faded into the shadows.

* * *

Elizabeth was becoming quite weary. Hours had passed, and her feet ached terribly and the edges of the corset were digging painfully into her skin. It was warm and noticeably humid, and the assemblage of so many people within the grand ballroom only served to elevate the temperature further. She wished for nothing more than to simply rid her feet of these uncomfortable shoes and find her way into her cool, cozy bed, but the evening was young yet and she couldn't excuse herself so easily.

She curtsied and accepted yet another kiss from the Earl's son, Daniel, as a song ended. He was a nice enough boy, though she could already detect his father's insufferable pretentiousness seeping into his mannerisms. It was a pity, really, for he was quite fetching, and he certainly would become a proper, perfect husband. Her experiences this evening had put an entirely new and unflattering perspective on wealth. The Earl boasted an amazing fortune, most of which the profits of early and lucrative investments in various eastern trading companies. The nobleman was executor of numerous businesses himself, and his son was the one who stood to inherit that coveted position come his father's retirement. The mere prospect of such money had already inflated Daniel Whittenby's ego to ends Elizabeth found revolting. He practically exuded an air of superiority. Had she not experienced the life of a pirate, had she not fallen in love with a blacksmith, such an attitude might not have left her so appalled. As it was, when he turned to answer his father's beckoning, she was immensely glad to be free of his smothering narcissism and high talk of economics and business ventures.

Elizabeth was unable to stifle a sigh of relief as she slowly made her way from the dance floor. Absently she nodded to the ladies who greeted her, responding to their pleasantries with thoughtless salutations of her own. Even before her escapade with the_ Black Pearl_, she'd been simply unable to understand the merit in events such as this. These sorts of things hardly appealed to her. Dancing for hours, entertaining the whims of guests, listening to their mindless and idle palaver as they discussed courting and dresses and gossip… It was terribly boring and exhausting to Elizabeth. As the Governor's daughter, though, she was rarely excluded from even the most insignificant of community gatherings. She was constantly in the eye of the public. Other girls might have flourished with such constant attention. She was beginning to find it annoying at best and disastrous at worst. The public had no business in her affairs, and they had no right to so openly abuse her suitor. It was no secret about Port Royal that she was courting Will, and though he seemed often worried that her reputation would suffer because of it, she saw no reason to hide their relationship. The opinions of others mattered little. Still, she would not stand for their poor treatment of him, especially at such an important event. She had wanted to prove to Will and to her father that this world could be accepting of an outsider, and that dream had thus far been cruelly dashed by conceit and coldness. Anger rolled through her as she stepped through the crowds of nobles, glancing about suspiciously despite her manners. Which among them had so cruelly insulted him? Elizabeth would throttle them if it would put these prejudiced thoughts out of their stuffy heads! Sadly, she knew it would do little good, even if she could be so bold or powerful. To them, it was simply uncouth for a lady of her station to accept the affections of a commoner, and this unspoken law was binding and unquestioned.

Tiredly she broke away from the chatter of the ladies. Tears pricked her eyes, and for the second time that evening, frustrated grief battered against her composure. One of the large balconies opened before her, its entrance framed by red velvet draperies. The air that crept inside was cooler, powered by a surprisingly strong wind from the darkness beyond. It brushed against, slipping about her hair and easing her, relieving the stifling hold of the arrogance and heat within the room. She drew a deep breath, steadying herself and lifting her head slightly. This was a minor defeat, one which warranted neither despair nor doubt.

She wondered again where Will had gone. She hadn't seen him since they had arrived, and that had been hours ago. She prayed he hadn't left, though she would hardly blame him if he had. Elizabeth sighed softly. He had sworn to wait for her, and she had never known him to go back on his word. She smiled faintly. Suddenly she couldn't think of anything aside from his face, from his hands and voice and eyes, and she decided to find him.

"Elizabeth." She turned to find the Commodore behind her. He smiled gently. There was concern in his kind eyes. "Are you well?"

She grinned feebly. "Yes," she answered, turning her eyes outside once more. "I just need some air."

She felt him look down. His hands were clasped behind his back as he stepped closer, coming to stand at her side. "I sympathize completely. It is quite stuffy in here." They were silent. Elizabeth felt her heart pang in discomfort. Turning the Commodore's proposal down had not been an easy task. Though she loved Will completely and without reservation, Norrington was a good man. He had never been anything aside from the perfect gentleman, and despite his often times aloof demeanor, he was a kind individual. Marrying him would have been a wise and honorable match, and she knew she had hurt him with her rejection. Since that day, an awkward tension had come between them, one festering with unwanted emotions and unresolved matters. She didn't care for it in the least, but at times she couldn't help but wonder if Norrington would ever truly put the past behind him and allow them both to embrace their futures.

"The Earl is an interesting man," he suddenly declared, commenting idly as though to simply fill the burdensome void. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and scanned the blackness outside, listening half-heartedly as he spoke of his meeting with Whittenby. He explained to her his impression of their guest, which was, of course, nothing less than flattering. "He is a powerful ally in London, and the money he has brought this eve is promising indeed. Your father is greatly pleased to have him amongst us." Norrington sighed again, drawing her attention fully. "It will do some good." The quiet came again. It was empty and terribly stressful. Elizabeth shifted her weight, wishing vehemently to be left alone. "I... I had hoped to dance with you," Norrington began, a tinge of wistful nervousness in his voice. She cringed inwardly; he sounded like a young boy sheepishly asking a girl to join him. "You seem a bit piqued, though, so I believe I shall have to ask another time."

She could stand this no longer. "Commodore, please." She turned upon him a firm stare, hoping that was enough to stress to him that at the moment she did not wish for his company.

Norrington sighed. The youthful hesitation fled him, and he was again the Commodore, stern and tall and proud. "I do not know what you thought to accomplish by bringing Mr. Turner here, Elizabeth." She stiffened, biting her tongue to restrain herself from speaking out-of-turn. Her anger was mounting by the moment. "I won't presume to understand you. I doubt I ever have. Moreover, I won't broach again a subject that has long been settled. But, please, you must remember your father."

"I can hardly forget him," countered Elizabeth hotly, her eyes flashing. "He reminds more than any other how I've disappointed him with my choice in a suitor."

"And you would do well to listen to him." His answer was short and curt, and it cut deeply into her. Her irate expression collapsed into one of hurtful shock. Immediately his face softened. He as well could not bear to hurt her. "I do not say these things because I wish to have you as my own wife, or because I revel in Mr. Turner's degradation. I can't stand to see your reputation battered. I care for you, Elizabeth, and I would rather you kept your honor intact than have it dragged about all of Port Royal by the loose tongue of every woman!"

"That doesn't concern me," she insisted, but her spirit was not so adamant. No matter how vehemently she wished to deny his words, she knew he was right. On some level, she realized that she was acting selfishly. Her disregard for her own image was damaging that of her father, and that was a disgrace he could not afford. She was not ungrateful or so narrow-minded to act that spoiled. But her heart refused to believe that. What she felt for Will was not wrong!

Slightly reaffirmed, she turned and looked to Norrington. She smiled weakly. "I thank you for your concern, Commodore. But you needn't worry. Excuse me, please." He opened his mouth to protest, but Elizabeth had already turned from him. Quickly she stepped out onto the balcony, desperate to flee this place, this noise, this shame and embarrassment. She needed Will.

She had to find him.

* * *

There was a storm approaching. Will narrowed his eyes, watching anxiously as wicked fingers of lightning grasped the clouds violently. A rumble of thunder followed, distant still but growing ever-closer. He'd been observing it for quite some time now, since it had been but a few flashes looming miles away over the crystalline surface of the sea. A hot wind pushed at him, tearing a few strands of hair loose, and again came an irritated, ominous grumble from the sky. The weather, he found, was entirely appropriate for his own foul mood. If it began to rain, he would have to go back inside the ballroom to seek shelter. He scowled and glanced over his shoulder as a particularly loud bout of laughter reached his ears. Perhaps becoming soaked in a deluge was preferable to weathering another moment of that party.

The young man sighed softly and retreated from the railing of the banister, returning to the little nook he had found for himself. The balcony was very dark near its end, as the butlers had come about some time ago to extinguish the lights of the sconces, sending the area into a pitch that was decidedly uninviting to the guests. That was just as well for Will, for it had offered to him a place in which he might stay without the threat of discovery. Very few from within had ventured outside, and nobody had spotted the lone blacksmith hidden in the shadows. Will enjoyed the relative peace. He sat gracefully, drawing his legs up to his chest and leaning back against the wall. It was not proper of him to be like this, but he hardly cared. He had tried to be what they wished, and they had spat in his face.

Another song was ending, the orchestra concluding the melody in a jovial, tremulous chord. A round of applause followed this, and Will released a slow, tired breath. His lack of sleep the night before was beginning to take its toll upon him, and his eyelids were continually slipping down. He allowed himself a moment of luxury, closing them and bracing the back of his head on the smooth, stone wall behind him. The hours had passed so slowly in this dark crevice. He had listened to the music but he had not enjoyed it, for it only made sharper the absence of Elizabeth. Bitterly he seethed in the silence, clenching his hands upon his knees in anger. He supposed it had really been too much to suppose the night could have gone differently. It really hadn't occurred to him the obligations Elizabeth faced at these social events. He felt the fool now for hoping he could remain at her side during the ball. He'd been right to tell her that he didn't belong. They simply wouldn't have him. A few times he'd grown frustrated enough to look or even step back inside the warm, glowing party. Ladies and their lords strolled about, brandishing glasses of rich wine. The aroma of food had made Will's stomach groan, and though he supposed nobody would notice him slip inside to the grand tables in the back to acquire a scrap of a meal, he found the prospect too daunting. He had no wish to face their vindictive dejection again. A bleeding heart and a growling belly were not strong enough to silence the hurt of his trampled dignity.

So he had stayed in the shadows, scanning the floor of dancing nobles, searching for a glimpse of Elizabeth. And every so often he had found her, always in the arms of a different man. That was another strange practice of these celebrations; the women seemed to be passed about, as though they were bound by ladyship to dance with whoever requested it of them. From Elizabeth's fatigued and decidedly bored expression, he became certain his conclusion was accurate. She hid her distaste well, but Will knew her far too intimately to be convinced by her façade of enjoyment. She and her various partners had slipped gracefully in and out of the rows of dancers, and never once had she met his gaze.

Now he breathed deeply and tried to ease his frustration, finding that his faith in the appearance of the opportune moment was rapidly becoming little more than a foolish memory. He had no notion of the hour, but so much of the evening had passed already. At the time the minutes had been long and miserable. He looked back on the parade of time and realized the night had escaped him easily and without regard to his plans. His hand dropped to his side, resting over the slight bulge in his coat pocket. Where his hopes had before exhilarated him, they now needled and disgusted him. Long fingers slipped inside and brushed against the small leather bag. They closed about it, squeezing until the ring pressed painfully into his palm. _Damn this,_ he thought, opening his eyes and tipping his head forward to glare indignantly into the shadows ahead. _Damn this all!_

The thought of leaving crossed his mind. To say he hadn't considered the idea before would be a lie. In fact, as the dreary hours mounted and he grew less tolerant of his exile, the prospect became more and more alluring. But his heart was finding faith in Elizabeth's oath, even if his mind wouldn't. And thus he banished the notion. He couldn't betray her or abandon her. Even if she never came for him, he would remain still, nestled in the night, waiting. But she wouldn't be that cruel as to lie, as to lure him into this mess and then leave him. The fact that he had even considered such a thing possible twisted his stomach.

Lightning ravaged the sable sky, and a particularly loud boom of thunder resounded. A hot breeze swept up over the polished, stone railing to invade his spot, caressing him with warm fingers and smelling strongly of the sea. His mind drifted, rambling about this matter and that, and he closed his eyes again. His fingers slipped into the small leather parcel to grasp the ring, its cool sleekness reminding him that maybe all was not lost despite the disaster the evening had become. He thought of the rain and hoped it would abstain from sundering the island until he had made it home. He tried not to remember the mess he'd left in the shop due to his rush, or the disgusting stench of Mr. Brown and whatever woman he had procured for the night. And then his thoughts drifted leisurely to the topic they always seemed to inevitably reach: his father.

He thought of lightning and thunder, and a memory came to him. It had been storming then as well. He hadn't been scared of it, even at that young age, for it rained often in his mother's home in the slums of London. That night, when his mother had been busy with a caller, he'd rushed down to local tavern. One of the merchant ships had returned from the Caribbean, purportedly bringing a good number of sailors home with it. The thought of possibly seeing his father again had excited him immensely, and he'd been more than disappointed to find Bill Turner not among those that had arrived. Still, something else came of that day. A man he hadn't recognized had grabbed his arm as he had been about to leave. In a hushed voice he had spoken, shoving a wet parcel into the Will's hands. _"You best be takin' this. Your father wanted ya ta have it. He ain't gonna be makin' this run again." _As young as he was, he hadn't understood the man's cryptic words. But he had taken the package and run home through the rain, thunder, and wind, clutching the small box to his chest, shameful tears staining his dirty cheeks.

Had he known what was inside it, he probably would never have opened it. He remembered sitting on the musty, old collection of quilts that was his bed, his small, trembling fingers working to untie the bindings about the wooden box. He recalled his awe and confusion as he had finally pushed the lid aside and lifted the golden medallion into the flash of the lightning. The skull had wickedly shone, but for some reason, the innocence of youth had blinded him to its malice. And he had kept it, loving it as he loved nothing else because it had come from his father. He had hidden it below his bed, under the loose boards in the floor, terrified that if his mother found it she would sell it for the money they so desperately needed. And when she had died, he had taken it with him in his hunt to find his father.

Again, he should have left it behind. That cursed gold had nearly taken his life.

But it had also given him life. It had given him Elizabeth.

Thunder. Music and laughter. Then the sounds of fast footsteps reached his ears, and he parted with his thoughts. He looked up, his eyes narrowing, and looked to the place where the light of the room beyond illuminated the balcony. The steps grew closer and louder, and suddenly a figure appeared. Will's heart rushed suddenly, and he scrambled to his feet. "Elizabeth?"

She had turned to look out at the trees rustling in the wind, and at his voice she ripped about. Her hands flew to her cheeks, wiping quickly. "Oh, Will!" she said breathlessly. She smiled, but he knew immediately it was forced. All of his sour thoughts and troubling fears suddenly faded in a rush of concern. "I'm so happy I found you!"

She was upset enough not to care for appearances, for she surprised him as she threw her arms about him. Will nearly staggered, but he regained himself quickly. He shot a worried glance to the bustling ballroom that lay wide open but five feet from them, but no one seemed to notice their display. "What is it?" he asked softly, finding means and mind enough to back away into the concealing shadows.

Elizabeth seemed reluctant to lift her head from the warmth of his chest. "I thought you would leave me…" she admitted. The relief in her voice sent waves of worry washing against his spirit.

He held her tighter. "I swore to you I wouldn't," he answered, unable to keep a tinge of hurt from his tone. She didn't answer, burrowing her face into the nape of his neck, her arms squeezing his chest as though she was afraid he might vanish if she loosened her grip. Despite his concern, he merely stood, warm ecstasy claiming his body at having her near again. Those terrible hours he had spent without her seemed even longer now as his senses feasted upon her, memorizing anew the feel of her satiny skin, the smell of her hair, the curves of her body pressed against his. His eyes slipped shut once more and he released a long, relieved breath. "I missed you."

She responded by nuzzling closer to him, as though to bury herself in his embrace and hide from the world. He shook his head slightly, leaning back and slipping a hand between them to lift her chin. He was surprised to find her cheeks glistening in the meager light. "Elizabeth, please, tell me what's wrong," he pleaded, feeling useless and ignorant.

She sighed then and pulled away from him. She stepped to the balcony, staring out into the darkness as if the heated abyss of swirling winds and churning clouds comforted her. "It's… It's just everything. This place and all the people in it…" She trailed off, sighing again as if to vent her anger into the muggy night air. He stood, watching her as she leaned wearily into the railing, wondering what to say and how to act to ease her troubles. Typically cheery and calm, Elizabeth was rarely so riled. Though he hated seeing her upset, he knew there was little he could do to easily amend the source of her vexation. Will realized almost instantly from the frustration in her tight tone and the slump of her usually proud shoulders that she was beginning to see why he found their predicament so particularly difficult. "Is it so wrong, Will?" she asked tiredly, lifting her chin to the night. He hesitated, unsure if she wished for him to speak, unsure himself of the truth. "Is it?"

"No," he finally responded, forcing his voice to be strong. "Of course not."

She turned, leveling teary eyes at him. "Then why must it be so hard?" she whimpered. Exasperated, she shook her head and began to pace, her skirts swishing softly with each frantic turn of her slender body. "Why must they make it so miserable? I feel as though I'm a criminal for bringing you here, for choosing you and asking them to accept it."

This didn't sound like her. The words revolted him. They seemed alien and wrong coming from her mouth, from her heart. After all, she was the one who typically reassured him. She was their strength, their foundation, the unwavering flame of resolve that did not flicker even when the winds of adversity blew their heaviest. "It doesn't matter," he swore, stepping closer to her, desperate to alleviate her distress. "What they said to me doesn't matter."

"It's more than just that," she clarified, her normally melodic voice pinched by sad frustration. "It's the way they look at you, at me, at _us_, as though we're a spectacle. It's my father and the Commodore–"

"The Commodore?" Will frowned.

Elizabeth nodded, her eyes glinting furiously. Lightning sparked the sky and made her face glow. "Yes, and it's no business of his to reprimand me!" she snapped angrily. Will stiffened slightly, annoyed himself that Norrington would interfere. A pang of something he knew to be jealousy (though he was far too proud to admit it!) struck his innards, and he looked away, his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. "We love each other, and that's something… something wondrous and beautiful and precious! And yet _they_ make it seem filthy and impure! I thought I could show him, all of them, that you are every bit as good as any young gentleman, but they never even gave you a chance." Her own words had upset her further, and with a weeping breath she collapsed again into his strong arms. "I just want us to be left alone."

He wrapped a hand around the back of her neck as she sobbed quietly into his jacket. He didn't say anything, knowing she simply needed the solace of his silence, understanding her desire to unleash frustrations she had likely trapped inside herself for months. She was so strong to constantly drive back the bombardment of disapproval she faced, to ward away the wishes of her father and Norrington and all of refined society. He envied her that vigor. If she desired a moment of weakness, he would give her that.

Finally she quieted. Will smiled softly, though she could not see it. His thumb stroked her cheek, cupping tenderly the side of her head. "We're alone here," he declared in a low whisper. She leaned back, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes were red from crying, and her hair was slightly mussed from the wind tugging at it, but she was still perfect. The rough pad of his thumb wiped a wayward tear from her cheek. Inside, the orchestra began to play again, and this time the melody was slow and sensuous, the long, low notes slipping inside him with the tender caress of a lover. They smothered all the troubles of that day, directing his attentions instead to the beautiful woman in his arms. He cupped her face tenderly before leaning down to kiss away her tears. She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes.

When the moment ended, he smiled. "I believe you promised me a dance, my lady," he declared matter-of-factly.

Her breath was a warm, sweet brush of air against his cheek. "I did, didn't I." It wasn't a question. His arm instinctively slid around her slight form, his other hand coming to intertwine with hers as she stepped into his hold. And then they began to dance, slowly and without the energetic glamour of those inside, but every bit as beautiful for its quiet devotion. Elizabeth breathed softly, obviously contented to simply allow him the choice of direction and step, and Will impressed himself with his sudden bout of grace and talent. In the shadows they moved, gliding effortlessly among the winds of the inclement weather. The music reached them in warm waves, and the lightning made their embrace glow fiercely. The trees whistled and waved below them, singing their own chorus, and everything was perfect.

They reached the rail, and though the music still played, Elizabeth stopped. Will stood before her, their clasped hands lowering together. Then she raised them to her chest, pressing his palm to the smooth skin and holding it there. "Elizabeth," he breathed, shaking his head slightly.

"Shhh," she said softly, stepping closer to him. "I want you to feel this and know that it is only for you. Without you… I…" She brought his hand to her mouth and hastily kissed it. "Please, don't ever leave me, William."

The fear in her voice was achingly apparent, and it startled him. "I'll never leave you," he swore, his voice husky and his eyes glowing vibrantly with the need to make this clear to her. "I promise you, Elizabeth. I'll never leave you. I'll never let you go. _Never_."

And to that she smiled, faintly at first, but then stronger with the comfort of his words. "I love you," she said, snuggling close to him. She moaned happily, tucking her head against the heat of his neck. He enfolded her in his arms, burying his face into the sweetness of her hair. They were silent, locked together in a moment of seemingly perpetual bliss. Then Will's heart began to pound, and he opened eyes that had slipped shut. This seemed so right, this warm night, the soft music, her body against his and her heart open to him. He couldn't feel the weight of the ring in his pocket, but he knew it was there, waiting patiently for him to act. Could he do this? What should he say? There weren't words enough to describe the depths of what he felt for her. He was no romantic. Anything he might conjure up in this moment seemed dreadfully pathetic. All the speeches he'd rehearsed in the past suddenly fled him in his nervousness. Perhaps there would be a better time; this evening had been trying, after all, for the both of them. But his heart grew ardent, and with every ecstatic beat his hesitation was pummeled into submission. It didn't matter how he asked. The words he used were inconsequential. He could do this.

He drew a deep breath. "Elizabeth," he said softly, leaning back so he could see her eyes. "I have something I want to ask you…" She looked to him, her gaze expectant. He lifted her hands in his and planted a nervous, little kiss on each. He smiled feebly. Inside he was in a turmoil, jittery and frightened of what he was about to do. Instinct carried him, for his mind was lost and his heart was beating too loudly to concentrate. "I… That is…" He smiled widely, veritably glowing as he grasped her shoulders. "Would you–"

There was a distant boom. It distracted Will, and he turned, tearing his eyes from Elizabeth's to look into the night. It had been too short, too succinct, to be thunder. Another loud bang resounded, this time accompanied by the distinctive whiz of air being sliced by a rapidly flying object, and this time he recognized it for what it was.

Cannon fire.

"Get down!" he cried, and he threw himself into her. Elizabeth released a short shriek of surprise as he pushed her to the ground with his weight, pressing her to the polished stone of the balcony. There was a horrific explosion behind them as a shot struck the wall. Will cringed, curling himself tightly over Elizabeth's quivering body as the force of the impact shook them violently. A rain of stone descended upon them.

Another ball was launched from the abyss. Lightning flashed.

Will moved without thought. He pushed closer to the balcony, scrambling to his knees and pulling Elizabeth up with him. He pressed her to the railing, wrapping one arm about her waist and another securely around a stone banister. The cannon met its target, obliterating completely the area behind them. The explosion was deafening, and the wall shattered in a wave of flying stone.

He shielded her body as the debris slammed into them. And when that was over, he lifted his head, breathing heavily and peering over the top of the rail. Whiteness blinded him, but after that faded, he could see the harbor. Down the hill and through the trees the water rolled and rippled in the storm. There were puffs of smoke and blinks of sudden illumination, crowning the unforgettable profile of a massive ship. A bloody red flag blew in the wind, ripping and tugging madly at its tethers. It was the ship from earlier!

"Will, what's happening?!" Elizabeth gasped weakly, leaning up from beneath him.

He never got a chance to answer. There came a horrific cry from behind them, and the ballroom erupted in chaos. A woman stumbled to the balcony. Will stood and pulled Elizabeth up with him. The lady wailed hoarsely, lifting her skirts as she struggled to run. The blacksmith stepped toward her, but he was too late.

A gun was fired, and the woman collapsed, shot in the back. Elizabeth screamed, her mouth open wide and her eyes terrified, as the body fell to the ground in a bloody mess. From the gaping balcony entrance a man exited, a pistol held in his hand. The hulking brute laughed crudely, pausing to shoot at the feebly struggling form. Then he turned. The pirate approached, his dirty boots clanking loudly on the balcony. He leveled his gun at Will's chest and smiled, revealing a gruesome set of rotting teeth. "Good evenin', chap."


End file.
